

V 



Class 






Rnnlc - 

(p I 






















* 
































Victor Hugo. 

) > 


THE 


TOILERS of THE SEA. 


SI NoOtl. 


WITH TWO ENGRAVINGS FROM ORIGINAL PICTURES 

By GUSTAVE DO RE. 




NEW YORK: 


HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 













O' 



' 










o 


































. 











































, v) * 










w * 

C < 

i V 
































































. ■ 














* 


























THE TOILERS OF THE SEA 


FIRST PART— SIEUR CLUBIN. 


BOOK I. 

THE HISTORY OP A BAD REPUTATION. 


I. 

A WORD WRITTEN ON A WHITE PAGE. 

* 

Christmas day in the year 182- was some- 
what remarkable in the island of Guernsey. 
Snow fell on that day. In the Channel Isl- 
ands a frosty winter is remarkable,, and a fall 
of snow is an event. 

On that Christmas morning, the road which 
skirts the seashore from St. Pierre Port au 
Valle was clothed in white. From midnight 
till the break of day the snow had^een falling. 
Towards nine o’clock, a little after the rising of 
the wintry sun, as it was too early yet for the 
Church of England folks to go to St. Samp- 
son’s, or for the Wesleyans to repair to Eldad 
Chapel, the road was almost deserted. Through- 
out that portion of the highway which separates 
the first from the second tower, only three foot- 
passengers could be seen. These were a child, 
a man, and a woman. Walking at a distance 
from each other, these wayfarers had no visible 
connection. The child, a boy of about eight 
years old, had stopped, and was looking curi- 
ously at the wintry scene. The man walked 
behind the woman, at a distance of about a 
hundred paces. Like her he was coming from 
the direction of the church of St. Sampson. 
The appearance of the man, who was still young, 
was something between that of a workman and 
a sailor. He wore his working-day clothes — a 
kind of Guernsey shirt of coarse brown stuff, 
and trousers partly concealed by tarpaulin leg- 
gins — a costume which seemed to indicate that, 
notwithstanding the holy day, he was going to 
no place of worship. His heavy shoes of rough 
leather, with their soles covered with large nails, 
left upon the snow, as he walked, a print more 
like that of a prison lock than the foot of a man. 
The woman, on the contrary, was evidently 
dressed for church. She wore a large mantle 
of black silk, wadded, under which she had co- 
quettishly adjusted a dress of Irish poplin, trim- 
med alternately with white and pink ; but for 
her red stockings, she might have been taken 


for a Parisian. She walked on with a light and 
free step, so little suggestive of the burden of 
life that it might easily be seen that she was 
young. Her movements possessed that subtle 
grace which indicates the most delicate of all 
transitions — that soft intermingling, as it were, 
of two twilights — the passage from the condi- 
tion of a child to that of womanhood. The 
man seemed to take no heed of her. 

Suddenly, near a group of oaks at the corner 
of a field, and at the spot called the Basses 
Maisons, she turned, and the movement seemed 
to attract the attention of the man. She stop- 
ped, seemed to reflect a moment, then stooped, 
and the man fancied that he could discern that 
she was tracing with her finger some letters in 
the snow. Then she rose again, went on her 
way at a quicker pace, turned once more, this 
time smiling, and disappeared to the left of the 
roadway, by the footpath under the hedges which 
leads to the Chateau de Lierre. When she 
had turned for the second time, the man had 
recognized her as Deruchette, a charming girl 
of that neighbourhood. 

The man felt no need of quickening his pace ; 
and some minutes later he found himself near 
the group of oaks. Already he had ceased to 
think of the vanished Deruchette ; and if, at 
that moment, a porpoise had appeared above 
the water or a robin had caught his eye in the 
hedges, it is probable that he would have passed 
on his way. But it happened that his eyes 
were fixed upon the ground ; his gaze fell me- 
chanically upon the spot where the girl had 
stopped. Two little footprints were there plain- 
ly visible ; and beside them he read this word, 
evidently written by her in the snow — 

“ GILLIATT.” 

It was his own name. 

He lingered for awhile motionless, looking at 
the letters, the little footprints, and the snow ; 
and then walked on, evidently in a thoughtful 
mood. 



6 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


II. 

THE BU DE LA RUE. 

Gilliatt lived in the parish of St. Sampson. 
He was not liked by his neighbours ; and there 
were reasons for that fact. 

To begin with, he lived in a queer kind of 
“ haunted” dwelling. In the islands of Jersey 
and Guernsey, sometimes in the country, but 
often in streets with many inhabitants, you will 
come upon a house the entrance to which is 
completely barricaded. Holly bushes obstruct 
the doorway, hideous boards, with nails, con- 
ceal the windows below ; while the casements 
of the upper stories are neither closed nor open: 
all the window-frames are dusty and the glass 
broken. If there is a little yard, grass grows 
between its stones ; and the parapet of its wall 
is crumbling away. If there is a garden, it is 
choked with nettles, brambles, and hemlock, 
and strange insects abound in it. The chim- 
neys are cracked, the roof is falling in ; so 
much as can be seen from without of the rooms 
presents a dismantled appearance. The wood- 
work is rotten ; the stone mildewed. The pa- 
per of the walls has dropped away and hangs 
loose, until it presents a history of the bygone 
fashions of paper-hangings — the scrawling pat- 
terns of the time of the Empire, the crescent- 
shaped draperies of the Directory, the balus- 
trades and pillars of the days of Louis XVI. 
The thick draperies of cobwebs, filled with flies, 
indicate the quiet reign long enjoyed by innu- 
merable spiders. Sometimes a broken jug may 
be noticed on a shelf. Such houses are consid- 
ered to be haunted. Satan is popularly believed 
to visit them by night. Houses are like the 
human beings who inhabit them. They become 
to their former selves what the corpse is to the 
living body. A superstitious belief among the 
people is sufficient to reduce them to this state 
of death. Then their aspect is terrible. These 
ghostly houses are common in the Channel Isl- 
ands. 

The rural and maritime populations are ea- 
sily moved with notions of the active agency 
of the powers of evil. Among the Channel 
Isles, and on the neighbouring coast of France, 
the ideas of the people, on this subject, are 
deeply rooted. In their view, Belzebub has 
his ministers in all parts of the earth. It is 
certain that Belphegor is the ambassador from 
the infernal regions in France, Hutgin in Italy, 
Belial in Turkey, Thamug in Spain, Martinet 
in Switzerland, and Mammon in England. Sa- 
tan is an emperor just like any other : a sort 
of Satan Cassar. His establishment is well or- 
ganized. Dagon is grand almoner, Succor Be- 
noth is chief of the Eunuchs ; Asmodeus, bank- 
er at the gaming-table ; Kobal, manager of the 
theatre, and Verdelet grand-master of the cere- 
monies. Nybbas is the court fool ; Wierus, a 
savant, a good strygologue, and a man of much 
learning in demonology, calls Nybbas the great 
parodist. 

The Norman fishermen, who frequent the 


Channel, have many precautions to take at sea, 
by reason of the illusions with which Satan en- 
virons them. It has long been an article of 
popular faith, that Saint Maclou inhabited the 
great square rock called Ortach, in the sea be- 
tween Auvigny and Les Casquets; and many 
old sailors used to declare that they had often 
seen him there, seated and reading in a book. 
Accordingly the sailors, as they passed, were 
in the habit of kneeling many times before the 
Ortach rock, until the day when the fable was 
destroyed, and the truth took its place. It has 
been discovered, and is now well established, 
that the lonely inhabitant of the rock is not a 
saint, but a devil. This evil spirit, whose name 
is Jochmus, had the impudence to pass himself 
off, for many centuries, as Saint Maclou. Even 
the Church hreself is not proof against snares 
of this kind. The demons Raguhel, Oribel, 
and Tobiel, were regarded as saints until the 
year 745 ; when Pope Zachary, having at length 
unearthed them, turned them out of saintly 
company. This sort of weeding of the saintly 
calendar is certainly very useful ; but it can 
only be practised by very accomplished judges 
of devils and their ways. 

The old inhabitants of these parts relate — 
though all this refers to bygone times — that the 
Catholic population of the Norman Archipelago 
was once, though quite involuntary, even in 
more intimate correspondence with the powers 
of darkness than the Huguenots themselves. 
How this happened, however, we do not pre- 
tend to say : but it is certain that the people 
suffered considerable annoyance from this cause. 
It appears that Satan had taken a fancy to the 
Catholics, and sought their company a good 
deal — a circumstance which has given rise to 
the belief that the Devil is more Catholic than 
Protestant. One of his most insufferable fa- 
miliarities consisted in paying nocturnal visits 
to married Catholics in bed, just at the moment 
when the husband had fallen fast asleep, and 
the wife had begun to doze : a fruitful source 
of domestic trouble. Patouillet was of opinion 
that a faithful biography of Voltaire ought not 
to be without some allusion to this practice of 
the Evil One. The truth of all this is perfectly 
well known, and described in the forms of ex- 
communication in the rubric de erroribus noc - 
turnis et de semine diabolorum. The practice 
was raging particularly at St. Heller’s towards 
the end of the last century, probably as a pun- 
ishment for the Revolution ; for the evil conse- 
quences of revolutionary excesses are incalcula- 
ble. However this may have been, it is cer- 
tain that this possibility of a visit from the de- 
mon at night, when it is impossible to see dis- 
tinctly, or even in slumber, caused much em- 
barrassment among orthodox dames. The idea 
of giving to the world a Voltaire was by no 
means a pleasant one. One of these, in some 
anxiety, consulted her confessor on this ex- 
tremely difficult subject, and the best mode for 
timely discovery o%the cheat. The confessor 
replied, “In order to be sure tha; it is your 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


7 


husband by your tide, and not a demon, place 
your hand upon his head. If you find horns, 
you may be sure” — “Of what?” inquired the 
dame. 

Gilliatt’s house had been haunted, but it was 
no longer in that condition , it was for that rea- 
son, however, only regarded with more suspi- 
cion. No one learned in demonology can be 
unaware of the fact, that when a sorcerer has 
installed himself in a haunted dwelling, the 
Devil considers the house sufficiently occupied, 
and is polite enough to abstain from visiting 
there ; unless called in, like the doctor, on some 
special occasion. 

This house was known by the name of the 
Bit de la Rue. It was situated at the extremi- 
ty of a little promontory, rather of rock than of 
land, forming a small harbourage apart in the 
creek of Houmet Paradis. The water at this 
spot is deep. The house stood quite alone upon 
the point, almost separated from the island, and 
with just sufficient ground about it for a small 
garden, which was sometimes inundated by the 
high tides. Between the port of St. Sampson 
and the creek of Houmet Paradis rises a steep 
hill, surmounted by the block of towers covered 
with ivy, and known as the Chateau du Valle, 
or the Chateau de l’Archange ; so that, at St. 
Sampson, the Bu de la Rue was shut out from 
sight. 

Nothing is commoner than sorcerers in Guern- 
sey. They exercise their profession in certain 
parishes, in profound indifference to the enlight- 
enment of the nineteenth century. Some of 
their practices are downright criminal. They 
set gold boiling, they gather herbs at midnight, 
they cast sinister looks upon the people’s cattle. 
When the people consult them they send for 
bottles containing “water of the sick,” and they 
are heard to mutter mysteriously “the water 
has a sad look.” In March, 1857, one of them 
discovered, in water of this kind, seven demons. 
They are universally feared. One of them only 
lately bewitched a baker “as well as his oven.” 
Another had the diabolical wickedness to wafer 
and seal up envelopes “ containing nothing in- 
side.” Another went so far as to have on a 
shelf three bottles labelled “B.” These mon- 
strous facts are well authenticated. Some of 
these sorcerers are obliging, and for two or 
three guineas will take on themselves the com- 
plaint from which you are suffering. Then 
they are seen to roll upon their beds, and to 
groan with pain ; and while they are in these 
agonies the believer exclaims, “There! I am 
well again.” Others cure all kinds of diseases 
by merely tying a handkerchief round their pa- 
tients’ loins, a remedy so simple that it is aston- 
ishing that no one had yet thought of it. In 
the last century, the Cour Royale of Guernsey 
bound such folks upon a heap of fagots, and 
burnt them alive. In these days it condemns 
them to eight weeks imprisonment, four weeks 
on bread and water, and the remainder of the 
term ip solitary confinement. Amant alterna 
catena 


The last instance of burning sorcerers in 
Guernsey took place in 1747. The city authori- 
ties devoted one of its squares, forming the Car- 
re four du Bordage, to that ceremony. Between 
1565 and 1700, eleven sorcerers have thus suf- 
fered at this spot. As a rule the criminals 
made confession of their guilt. The Carrefour 
du Bordage has indeed rendered many other 
services to society and religion. It was here 
that heretics were brought to the stake. Under 
Queen Mary, among other Huguenots burnt 
here were a mother and two daughters. The 
name of the mother was Perrotine Massy. One 
of the daughters was enceinte , and was delivered 
of a child even in the midst of the flames. As 
the old chronicle expresses it, “ Son ventre €cla- 
ta.” The new-born infant rolled out of the fiery 
furnace. A man named House took it in his 
arms. Helier Eosselin the bailli, like a good 
Catholic as he was, sternly commanded the child 
to be cast again into the fire. 


III. 

FOR YOUR WIFE : WHEN YOU SHALL MARR1 . 

Let us return to Gilliatt. 

The country people told how, towards the 
close of the great Revolution, a woman, bring- 
ing with her a little child, came to live in 
Guernsey. She was an Englishwoman ; at 
least she was not French. She had a name 
which the Guernsey pronunciation and the coun- 
try folks’ bad spelling had finally converted into 
“Gilliatt.” She lived alone with the child, 
which, according to some, was a nephew ; ac- 
cording to others, a son ; according to others, 
again, a strange child whom she was protecting. 
She had some means ; enough to struggle on in 
a poor way. She had purchased a small plot 
of ground at La Sergentee, and another at La 
Roque Crespel, near Rocquame. The house of 
the Bu de la Rue was at this period haunted. 
For more than thirty years no one had inhabit- 
ed it. It was falling into ruins. The garden, 
so often invaded by the sea, could produce noth- 
ing. Besides noises and lights seen there at 
night-time, the house had this mysterious pecu- 
liarity : any one who should leave there in the 
evening, upon the mantelpiece, a ball of worst- 
ed, a few needles, and a plate filled with soup, 
would assuredly find, in the morning, the soup 
consumed, the plate empty, and a pair of mit- 
tens ready knitted. The house, demon included, 
was offered for sale for a few pounds sterling. 
The stranger woman became the purchaser ; ev- 
idently tempted by the devil, or by the advan 
tageous bargain. 

She did more than purchase the house, she 
took up her abode there with the child, and 
from that moment peace reigned within its walls. 
The Bu de la Rue has found a fit tenant, said 
the country people. The haunting ceased. 
There was no longer any light seen there, save 
that of the tallow candle of the new comer- 


8 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


“ Sorcerer’s candle is as good as the devil’s 
torch.” The proverb satisfied the gossips of the 
neighbourhood. 

The woman cultivated some acres of land 
which belonged to her. She had a good cow, 
of the sort which produces yellow butter. She 
gathered her white beans, cauliflowers, and 
“Golden drop” potatoes. She sold, like other 
people, her parsnips by the tonneau, her onions 
by the hundred, and her beans by the denerel. 
She did not go herself to market, but disposed 
of her crops through the agency of Guilbert Fal- 
liot, at the sign of the Abreveurs of Saint Samp- 
son. The register of Falliot bears evidence that 
Falliot sold for her, on one occasion, as much as 
twelve bushels of rare early potatoes. 

The house had been meanly repaired; but 
sufficiently to make it habitable. It was only 
in very bad weather that the rain-drops found 
their way through the ceilings of the rooms. 
The interior consisted of a ground-floor suite of 
rooms, and a granary overhead. The ground- 
floor was divided into three rooms; two for 
sleeping, and one for meals. A ladder con- 
nected the ground-floor with the granary above. 
The woman attended to the kitchen and taught 
the child to read. She did not go to church or 
chapel, which, all things considered, led to the 
conclusion that she must be French not to go 
to a place of worship. The circumstance was 
grave. In short, the new comers were a puzzle 
to the neighbourhood. 

That the woman was French seemed proba- 
ble. Volcanoes cast forth stones, and revolu- 
tions men, so families are removed to distant 
places ; human beings come to pass their lives 
far from their native homes ; groups of relatives 
and friends disperse and decay ; strange people 
fall, as it were, from the clouds — some in Ger- 
many, some in England, some in America. The 
people of the country view them with surprise 
and curiosity. Whence come these strange 
faces? Yonder mountain, smoking with revo- 
lutionary fires, casts them out. These barren 
aerolites, these famished and ruined people, 
these footballs of destiny, are known as refugees, 
emigres, adventurers. If they sojourn among 
strangers, they are tolerated; if they depart, 
there is a feeling of relief. Sometimes these 
wanderers are harmless, inoffensive people, stran- 
gers — at least, as regards the women — to the 
events which have led to their exile, objects of 
persecution, helpless and astonished at their fate. 
They take root again somewhere as they can. 
They have done no harm to any one, and 
scarcely comprehend the destiny that has be- 
fallen them. So thus I have, seen a poor tuft 
of grass uprooted and carried away by the ex- 
plosion of a mine. No great explosion was ever 
followed by more of such strays than the great 
French Revolution. • 

The strange woman whom the Guernsey folks 
called “Gilliatt” was, possibly, one of these hu- 
man waifs. 

The woman grew older ; the child became a 
youth. They lived alone and avoided by all ; 


but they were sufficient for each other. Louve 
et louveteau se pourlechent , This was another 
of the generous proverbs which the neighbour- 
hood applied to them. Meanwhile, the youth 
grew to manhood ; and then, as the old and 
withered bark falls from the tree, the mother 
died. She left to her son the little field of 
Sergentee, the small property called La Roque 
Crespel, and the house known as La Bu de la 
Rue; with the addition, as the official inven- 
tory said, of “one hundred guineas in gold in 
the pid d'une cauclie ” — that is to say, in the foot 
of a stocking. The house was already suffi- 
ciently furnished with two oaken chests, two 
beds, six chairs and a table, besides necessary 
household utensils. Upon a shelf were some 
books, and in the corner a trunk, by no means 
of a mysterious character, which had to be 
opened for the inventory. This trunk was of 
drab leather, ornamented with brass nails and 
little stars of white metals, and it contained a 
lady’s outfit, new and complete, of beautiful 
Dunkirk linen — chemises and petticoats, and 
some silk dresses — with a paper on which was 
written, in the handwriting of the deceased — 

“For your wife : when you shall marry.” 

The loss of his mother was a terrible blow 
for the young man. His disposition had al- 
ways been unsociable ; he became now moody 
and sullen. The solitude around him was com- 
plete. Hitherto it had been mere isolation ; 
now his life was a dreary blank. While we 
have only one companion, life is endurable; 
left alone, it seems as if it is impossible to 
struggle on, and we fall back in the race, which 
is the first sign of despair. As time rolls on, 
however, we discover that duty is a series of 
compromises; we contemplate life, regard its 
end, and submit ; but it is a submission which 
makes the heart bleed. 

Gilliatt was young ; and his wound healed 
with time. At that age sorrows cannot be last- 
ing. His sadness, disappearing by slow de- 
grees, seemed to mingle itself with the scenes 
around him, to draw him more and more to- 
wards the face of nature, and further and fur- 
ther from the need of social converse ; and, 
finally, to assimilate his spirit more completely 
to the solitude in which he lived. 


IV. 

AN UNPOPULAR MAN. 

Gilliatt, as we have said, was not popular 
in his parish. Nothing could be more natural 
than that antipathy among his neighbours. The 
reasons for it were abundant. To begin with, 
as we have already explained, there was the 
strange house he lived in ; then there was his 
mysterious origin. Who could that woman 
have been ? and what was the meaning of this 
child? Country, people do not like riddles 
when they relate to strange sojourners among 
them. Then his clothes were the clothes of a 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


9 


workman, while he had, although certainly not 
rich, sufficient to live without labour. Then 
there was his garden, which he succeeded in 
cultivating, and from which he produced crops 
of potatoes, in spite of the stormy equinoxes ; 
and then there were the big books which he kept 
upon a shelf, and read from time to time. 

More reasons : why did he live that solitary 
life ? The Bu de la Rue was a kind of Laza- 
retto, in which Gilliatt was kept in a sort of 
moral quarantine. This, in the popular judg- 
ment, made it quite simple that people should 
be astonished at his isolation, and should hold 
him responsible for the solitude which society 
had made around his home. 

He never went to chapel. He often went 
out at night-time. He held converse with sor- 
cerers. He had been seen, on one occasion, 
sitting on the grass with an expression of as- 
tonishment on his features. He haunted the 
druidical stones of the Ancresse, and the fairy 
caverns which are scattered about in that part. 
It was generally believed that he had been seen 
politely saluting the Crowing Rock. He bought 
all birds which people brought to him, and, 
having bought them, set them at liberty. He 
was civil to the worthy folks in the streets of St. 
Sampson, but willingly turned out of his way to 
avoid them if he could. He often w'ent out on 
fishing expeditions, and always returned with 
fish. He trimmed his garden on Sundays. He 
had bagpipes which he had bought from one of 
the Highland soldiers who are sometimes in 
Guernsey, and on which he played occasionally 
at twilight, on the rocks by the sea-shore. He 
had been seen to make strange gestures, like 
those of one sowing seeds. What kind of 
treatment could be expected for a man like 
that ? 

As regards the books left by the deceased 
woman, which he was in the habit of reading, 
the neighbours were particularly suspicious. 
The Reverend Jaquemin Herode, rector of St. 
Sampson, when he visited the house at the time 
of the woman’s funeral, had read on the backs 
of these books the title “Rosier Dictionary.” 
“ Candide,” by Voltaire. “ Advice to the Peo- 
ple on Health,” by Tissot. A French noble, 
one Gringre, who had retired to St. Sampson, 
remarked that this Tissot “must have been the 
Tissot who carried the head of the Princess de 
Lamballe upon a pike.” 

The Reverend gentleman had also remarked 
upon one of these books the highly fantastic 
and terribly significant title, “ De Rhubarb aro.” 

Injustice to Gilliatt, however, it must be add- 
ed that this volume being in Latin — a language 
which it is doubtful if he understood — the young 
man had possibly never read it. 

But it is just those books which a man pos- 
sesses, but does not read, which constitute the 
most suspicious evidence against him. The 
Spanish Inquisition have deliberated on that 
point, and have come to a conclusion which 
places the matter beyond further doubt. 

The book in question, however, was no other 


than the Treaty of Doctor Tilingius upon the 
Rhubarb plant, published in Germany in 1679. 

It was by no means certain that Gilliatt did 
not prepare philters and unholy decoctions. He 
was undoubtedly in possession of certain phials. 

Why did he walk abroad at evening, and 
sometimes even at midnight, on the cliffs ? Ev- 
idently to hold converse with the evil spirits 
who, by night, frequent the sea-shores, envel- 
oped in smoke. 

On one occasion he had aided the sorceress, 
De Torteval, to clean her chaise : this was an 
old woman named Moutonne Gahy. 

When a census was taken in the island, in 
answer to a question about his calling, he re- 
plied, “Fisherman; when there are fish to 
catch.” Imagine yourself in the place of Gil- 
liatt’s neighbours, and admit that there is some- 
thing unpleasant in answers like this. 

Poverty and wealth are comparative sins. 
Gilliatt had some fields and a house, his own 
property ; compared with those who had noth- 
ing, he was not poor. One day, to test this, 
and perhaps also as a step towards a correspond- 
ence — for there are base women who would mar- 
ry a demon for the sake of riches — d young girl 
of the neighbourhood said to Gilliatt, “When 
are you going to take a wife, neighbour?” He 
answered, “ I will take a wife when the Crow- 
ing Rock takes a husband.” 

This Crowing Rock is a great stone, standing 
in a field near Mons. Lemezurier de Fry’s. It 
is a stone of a highly suspicious character. No 
one knows what deeds are done around it. At 
times you may hear there a cock crowing, when 
no cock is near — an extremely disagreeable cir- 
cumstance. Then it is commonly asserted that 
this stone was originally placed in the field by 
the elfin people known as Sarregousels , who are 
the same as the Sins. 

At night, when it thunders, if you should hap- 
pen to see men flying in the lurid light of the 
clouds, or on the rolling waves of the air, these 
are no other than the Sarregousels. A woman 
who lives at the Grand Mielles knows them well. 
One evening, when some Sarregousels happened 
to be assembled at a cross-road, this woman 
cried out to a man with a cart, who did not 
know which route to take, “Ask them your 
way. They are civil folks, and always ready 
to direct a stranger.” There can be little doubt 
that this woman was a sorceress. 

The learned and judicious King James I. had 
women of this kind boiled, and then tasting the 
water of the cauldron, was able to say from its 
flavour, “That was a sorceress or “ That was 
not one.” 

It is to be regretted that the kings of these 
latter da}s no longer possess a talent which 
placed in so strong a light the utility of mon- 
archical institutions. 

It was not without substantial grounds that 
Gilliatt lived in this odour of sorcery. One 
midnight, during a storm, Gilliatt being at sea 
alone in a bark, on the coast by La Sommeil - 
leuse , he was heard to ask — 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


10 

“Is there a passage sufficient for me?” 

And a voice cried from the heights above : 

“ Passage enough : steer boldly.” 

To whom could he have been speaking, if not 
to those who replied to him ? This seems some- 
thing like evidence. 

Another time, one stormy evening, when it 
was so dark that nothing could be distinguished, 
Gilliatt was near the Catian Iloque — a double 
row of rocks w here witches, goats, and other dia- 
bolical creatures assemble and dance on Fridays 
— and here it is firmly believed that the voice 
of Gilliatt was heard, mingling in the following 
terrible conversation : 

“ How is Yesin Brorard ?” (This w'as a ma- 
son who had fallen from the roof of a house.) 

“ He is getting better.” 

“ Yer dia ! he fell from a greater height than 
that of yonder peak. It is delightful to think 
that he was not dashed to pieces.” 

“Our folks had a fine time at the shipwreck 
last week.” 

“ Aye, finer than to-day.” 

“I believe you. There will be little fish at 
the market to-day.” 

“ It blow's too hard.” 

“They can’t lower their nets.” 

“How is Catherine?” 

“ She is charming.” 

Catherine w r as evidently the name of a Sarrc- 
gousel. 

According to all appearance, Gilliatt had 
business on hand at night ; at least none doubt- 
ed it. 

Sometimes he was seen with a pitcher in his 
hand, pouring water on the ground. Now wa- 
ter, cast upon the ground, is known to make a 
shape like that of devils. 

On the road to Saint Sampson, opposite the 
Martello tower number 1, stand three stones, ar- 
ranged in the form of steps. Upon the platform 
of those stones, now empty, stood anciently a 
cross, or perhaps a gallows. These stones are 
full of evil influences. 

Staid and worthy people, and perfectly cred- 
ible witnesses, testified to having seen Gilliatt 
at this spot conversing with a toad. Now' there 
are no toads at Guernsey, the share of Guern- 
sey in the reptiles of the Channel Isles consist- 
ing exclusively of the snakes. It is Jersey that 
has all the toads. This toad, then, must have 
swum from the neighbouring island, in order to 
hold converse with Gilliatt. The converse was 
of a friendly kind. 

These facts were clearly established ; and the 
proof is that the three stones are there to this 
day. Those who doubt it may go and see 
them ; and at a little distance, there is also a 
house on which the passer-by may read this in- 
scription : 

“ Dealer in cattle, alive and dead, 

OLD CORDAGE, IRON, BONES, AND TOBACCO FOR 
CHEWING, PROMPT PAYMENT FOR GOODS, AND 
EVERY ATTENTION GIVEN TO ORDERS.” 

A man must be sceptical indeed to contest 
the existence of those stones, and of the house 


in question. Now both these circumstances 
were injurious to the reputation of Gilliatt. 

Only the most ignorant are unaware of the 
fact that the greatest danger of the coasts of the 
Channel Islands is the King of the Avxcriniers. 
No inhabitant of the seas is more redoubtable. 
Whoever has seen him is certain to be wrecked 
before one St. Michel and the other. He is lit- 
tle, being in fact a dwarf ; and is deaf, in his 
quality of king. He knows the names of all 
those who have been drowned in the seas, and 
the spots where they lie. He has a profound 
knowledge of the great grave-yard w hich stretch- 
es far and wide beneath the waters of the ocean. 
A head, massive in the lower part and narrow 
in the forehead ; a squat and corpulent figure ; 
a skull, covered with warty excrescences ; long 
legs, long arms, fins for feet, claws for hands, 
and a sea-green countenance; such are the chief 
characteristics of this king of the waves. His 
claws have palms like hands; his fins have hu- 
man nails. Imagine a spectral fish with the 
face of a human being. No power could check 
his career unless he could be exorcised, or may- 
hap fished up from the sea. Meanwhile he 
continues his sinister operations. Nothing is 
more unpleasant than an interview with this 
monster : beside the rolling w'aves and breakers, 
or in the thick of the mist, the sailor perceives, 
sometimes, a strange creature with a beetle 
brow, w'ide nostrils, flattened ears, an enormous 
mouth, gap-toothed jaws, peaked eyebrow's, and 
great grinning eyes. When the lightning is liv- 
id, he appears red ; when it is purple, he looks 
wan. He has a stiff spreading beard, running 
with water, and overlapping a sort of pelerine, 
ornamented with fourteen shells, seven before 
and seven behind. These shells are curious 
to those who are learned in| conch ologv. i The 
king of the Avxcriniers is only seen in stormy 
seas. He is the terrible harbinger of the tem- 
pest. His hideous form traces itself in the fog, 
in the squall, in the tempest of rain. His breast 
is hideous. A coat of scales covers his sides 
like a vest. He risss above the waves which fly 
before the wind, twisting and curling like thin 
shavings of wood beneath the carpenter’s plane. 
Then his entire form issues out of the foam, and 
if there should happen to be in the horizon any 
vessels in distress, pale in the twilight, or his 
face lighted up with a sinister smile, he dances 
terrible and uncouth to behold. It is an evil 
omen indeed to meet him on a voyage. 

At the period when the people of Saint Samp- 
son were particularly excited on the subject of 
Gilliatt, the last persons who had seen the king 
of the Avxcriniers declared that his pelerine 
was now' ornamented with otfly thirteen shells. 
Thirteen ! He was only the more dangerous. 
But what had become of the fourteenth ? Had 
he given it to some one? No one w'ould say 
positively ; and folks confined themselves to con- 
jecture. But it was an undoubted fact that a 
certain Mons. Lupin Mabier, of Godaines, a man 
of property, paying a good sum to the land tax, 
was ready to depose on oath that he had once 


11 


THE TOILERS 

seen in the hands of Gilliatt a very remarkable 
kind of shell. 

It was not uncommon to hear dialogues like 
the following among the country people : 

“I have a fine bull here, neighbour, what do 
you say?” 

“Very fine, neighbour.” 

“It is a fact? tho’ ’tis I who say it; he is 
better though for tallow than for meat.” 

“Ver dia!” 

“Are you sure that Gilliatt hasn’t cast his 
eye upon it ?” 

Gilliatt would stop sometimes beside a field 
where some labourers were assembled, or near 
gardens in which gardeners were engaged, and 
would perhaps hear these mysterious words : 

“When the mors du diable flourishes, reap 
the winter rye.” 

(The mors du diable is the scabwort plant.) 

“The ash-tree is coming out in leaf. There 
will be no more frost.” 

“Summer solstice, thistle in flower.” 

“If it rain not ip June, the wheat will turn 
white. Look out for mildew.” 

“When the wild cherry appears, beware of 
the full moon.” 

“ If the weather on the sixth day of the new 
moon is like that of the fourth, or like that of 
the fifth day, it will be the same nine times out 
of twelve in the first case, and eleven times 
out of twelve in the second, during the whole 
month.” 

“Keep your eye on neighbours who go to 
law with you. Beware of malicious influences. 
A pig which has had warm milk given to it will 
die. A cow which has had its teeth rubbed with 
Jeeks will eat no more.” 

“ Spawning time with the smelts ; beware of 
fevers.” 

“When frogs begin to appear, sow your 
melons.” 

“When the liverwort flowers, sow your bar- 
ley.” 

“When the limes are in bloom, mow the 
meadows.” 

“ When the elm-tree flowers, open the hot- 
house panes.” 

“When tobacco-fields are in blossom, close 
your green-houses.” 

And, fearful to relate, these occult precepts 
were not without truth. Those who put faith 
in them could vouch for the fact. 

One night, in the month of June, when Gil- 
liatt was playing upon his bagpipe, upon the 
sand-hills on the shore of the Demie de Fonte- 
nelle, it had happened that the mackerel fishing 
had failed. 

One evening, at low water, it happened that 
a cart filled with sea- weed for manure over- 
turned on the beach, in front of Gillian’s house. 
It is most probable that he was afraid of being 
brought before the magistrates, for he took con- 
siderable trouble in helping to raise the cart, 
and he filled it again himself. 

A little neglected child of the neighbourhood 
being troubled with vermin, he had gone him- 


OF THE SEA. 

self to St. Pierre Port, and had returned with 
an ointment, with which he rubbed the child’s 
head. Thus Gilliatt had removed the pest 
from the poor child, which was an evidence 
that Gilliatt himself had originally given it; 
for everybody knows that there is a certain 
charm for giving vermin to people. 

Gilliatt was suspected of looking into wells — 
a dangerous practice with those who have an 
evil eye ; and, in fact, at Arculons, near St. 
Pierre Port, the water of a well became un- 
wholesome. The good woman to whom this 
well belonged said to Gilliatt : 

“Look here, at this water ;” and she showed 
him a glass full. Gilliatt acknowledged it. 

“The water is thick,” he said; “that is true.” 

The good woman, who dreaded him in her 
heart, said, “Make it sweet again for me.” 

Gilliatt asked her some questions: whether 
she had a stable? whether the stable had a 
drain ? whether the gutter of the drain did not 
pass near the well ? The good woman replied 
“Yes.” Gilliatt went into the stable; worked 
at the drain ; turned the gutter in another di- 
rection ; and the water became pure again. 
People in the country round thought what they 
pleased. A well does not become foul one 
moment and sweet the next without good 
cause ; the bottom of the affair was involved 
in obscurity ; and, in short, it was difficult to 
escape the conclusion that Gilliatt himself had 
bewitched the water. 

On one occasion, when he went to Jersey, it 
was remarked that he had taken a lodging in 
the street called the Rue des Alleurs. Now the 
word alleurs signifies spirits from the other 
world. 

In villages it is the custom to gather to- 
gether all these little hints and indications of 
a man’s career; and when they are gathered 
together, the total constitutes his reputation 
among the inhabitants. 

It happened that Gilliatt was once surprised 
with blood issuing from his nose. The circum- 
stance appeared grave. The master of a barque 
who had sailed almost entirely round the world 
affirmed that among the Tongusians all sorcer- 
ers were subject to bleeding at the nose. In 
fact, when you see a man in those parts bleed, 
ing at the nose, you know at once what is in the 
wind. Moderate reasoners, however, remarked 
that the characteristics of sorcerers among the 
Tongusians may possibly not apply in the same 
degree to the sorcerers of Guernsey. 

In the environs of one of the St. Michels, he 
had been seen to stop in a close belonging to 
the Huriaux, skirting the highway from the 
Videclins. He whistled in the field, and a 
moment afterwards a crow alighted there ; a 
moment later, a magpie. The fact was at- 
tested by a worthy man who has since been ap- 
pointed to the office of Douzenier of the Dou- 
zaine, as those are called who are authorized 
to make a new survey and register of the fief 
of the king. 

At Hamel, in the Vingtaine of L’Epine, 


12 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


there lived some old women who were positive 
of having heard one morning a number of 
swallows distinctly calling “ Gilliatt.” 

Add to all this that he was of a spiteful temper. 

One day, a poor man was beating an ass. 
The ass was obstinate. The poor man gave 
him a few kicks in the belly with his wooden 
shoe, and the ass fell. Gilliatt ran to raise the 
unlucky beast, but he was dead. Upon this 
Gilliatt administered to the poor man a sound 
thrashing. 

Another day, Gilliatt seeing a boy come 
down from a tree with a brood of little birds, 
newly hatched and unfledged, he took the brood 
away from the boy, and carried his malevolence 
so far as even to carry them back and replace 
them in the tree. 

Some passers-by took up the boy’s com- 
plaint ; but Gilliatt made no reply, except to 
point to the old birds, who were hovering and 
crying plaintively over the tree, as they looked 
for their nest. He had a weakness for birds — 
another sign by which the people recognize a 
magician. 

Children take a pleasure in robbing the nests 
of birds along the cliff. They bring home 
quantities of yellow, blue, and green eggs, 
with which they make rosaries for mantelpiece 
ornaments. As the cliffs are peaked, they 
sometimes slip and are killed. Nothing is 
prettier than shutters decorated with sea-birds’ 
eggs. Gilliatt’s mischievous ingenuity had no 
end. He would climb, at the peril of his own 
life, into the steep places of the sea rocks, and 
hang up bundles of hay, old hats, and all kinds 
of scarecrows, to deter the birds from building 
there, and, as a consequence, to prevent the 
children from visiting those spots. 

These are some of the reasons why Gilliatt 
was disliked throughout the country. Perhaps 
nothing less could have been expected. 


Y. 

MORE SUSPICIOUS FACTS ABOUT GILLIATT. 

Public 'opinion was not yet quite settled 
with regard to Gilliatt. 

In general he was regarded as a Marcou: 
some went so far as to believe him to be a 
Cambion. A cambion is the child of a woman 
begotten by a devil. 

When a woman bears to her husband seven 
male children consecutively, the seventh is a 
marcou. But the series must not be broken by 
the birth of any female child. 

The marcou has a natural fleur-de-lys im- 
printed upon some part of his body ; for which 
reason he has the power of curing scrofula, ex- 
actly the same as the King of France. Mar- 
cous are found in all parts of France, but par- 
ticularly in the Orleanais. Every village of 
G&tinais has its Marcou. It is sufficient for 
the cure of the sick that the Marcou should 
breathe upon their wounds, or let them touch 
his fleur-de-lys. The night of Good Friday is 


particularly favourable to these ceremonies. 
Ten years ago there lived, at Ormes in Gati- 
nais, one of these creatures who was nicknamed 
the Beau Marcou , and consulted by all the 
country of Beauce. He was a cooper, named 
Foulon, who kept a horse and vehicle. To put 
a stop to his miracles, it was found necessary 
to call in the assistance of the gendarmes. His 
fleur-de-lys was on the left breast ; other marJ 
cous have it in different parts. 

There are Marcous at Jersey, Auvigny, and 
at Guernsey. This fact is doubtless in some 
way connected with the rights possessed by 
France over Normandy : or why the fleur-de- 
lys? 

There are also in the Channel Islands people 
afflicted with scrofula, which of course necessi- 
tates a due supply of these marcous. 

Some people, who happened to be present 
one day when Gilliatt was bathing in the sea, 
had fancied that they could perceive upon him 
a fleur-de-lys. Interrogated on that subject he 
made no reply, but merely burst into laughter. 
From that time, however, no one ever saw him 
bathe : he bathed thenceforth only in perilous 
and solitary places ; probably by moonlight : a 
thing in itself somewhat suspicious. 

Those who obstinately regarded him as a 
cambion, or son of the devil, were evidently in 
eiTor. They ought to have known that cam- 
bions scarce exist out of Germany. But Le 
Yalle and St. Sampson were, fifty years ago, 
places remarkable for the ignorance of their in- 
habitants. 

To fancy that a resident of the island of 
Guernsey could be the son of a devil was evi- 
dently absurd. 

Gilliatt, for the very reason that he caused 
disquietude among the people, was sought for 
and consulted. The peasants came in fear, to 
talk to him of their diseases. That fear itself 
had in it something of faith in ‘his powers; for 
in the country, the more the doctor is suspected 
of magic, the more certain is the cure. Gilliatt 
had certain remedies of his own, which he had 
inherited from the deceased woman. He com- 
municated them to all who had need of them, 
and would never receive money for them. He 
cured whitlows with applications of herbs. A 
liquor in one of his phials allayed fever. The 
chemist of St. Sampson, or pharmacien, as they 
would call him in France, thought that this was 
probably a decoetion of Jesuits’ bark. The 
more generous among his censors admitted that 
Gilliatt was not so bad a demon in his dealings 
with the sick, so far as regarded his ordinary 
remedies. But in his character of a Marcou , 
he would do nothing. If persons afflicted with 
scrofula came to him to ask to touch the fleur- 
de-lys on his skin, he made no other answer 
than that of shutting the door in their faces. 
He persistently refused to perform any miracles 
— a ridiculous position for a sorcerer. No one 
is bound to be a sorcerer ; but when a man is 
one, he ought not to shirk the duties of his po- 
sition. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


13 


One or two exceptions might be found to this 
almost universal antipathy. Good master Lan- 
doy, of the Clos-Landes, was parish clerk and 
registrar of St. Pierre Port, custodian of the 
documents, and keeper of the register of births, 
marriages, and deaths. This Landoys was vain 
of his descent from Pierre Landoys, treasurer 
of the province of Brittany, who was hanged in 
1485. One day, when good master Landoys 
was bathing in the sea, he ventured to swim out 
too far, and was on the point of drowning: Gil- 
liatt plunged into the water, narrowly escaping 
drowning himself, and succeeded in saving Lan- 
doys. From that day Landoys never spoke an 
evil word of Gilliatt. To those who expressed 
surprise at this change, he replied, ‘ ‘ Why should 
I detest a man who never did me any harm, and 
who has rendered me a service ?” The parish 
clerk and registrar even came at last to feel a 
sort of friendship for Gilliatt. This public func- 
tionary was a man without prejudices. He had 
no faith in sorcerers. He laughed at people 
who went in fear of ghostly visitors. For him- 
self, he had a boat in which he amused himself 
by making fishing excursions in his leisure 
hours; but he^had never seen anything extra- 
ordinary, unless it was on one occasion — a wom- 
an clothed in white, who rose about the waters 
in the light of the moon — and even of this cir- 
cumstance he was not quite sure. Montoune 
Gahy, the old soi*ceress of Torteval, had given 
him a little bag to be worn under the cravat, as 
a protection against evil spirits : he ridiculed 
the bag, and knew not what it contained, though, 
to be sure, he carried it about him, feeling more 
security with this charm hanging on his neck. 

Some courageous persons, emboldened by the 
example of Landoys, ventured to cite, in Gil- 
liatt’s favour, certain extenuating circumstan- 
ces ; a few signs of good qualities, as his sobri- 
ety, his abstinence from spirits and tobacco*; 
and sometimes they went so far as to pass this 
elegant eulogium upon him : “He neither 
smokes, drinks, chews pigtail, or takes snuff.” 

Sobriety, however, can only count as a virtue 
when there are other virtues to support it. 

The ban of public opinion lay heavily upon 
Gilliatt. 

In any case, as a Marcou, Gilliatt had it in 
his power to render great services. On a cer- 
tain Good Friday, at midnight, a day and an 
hour propitious to this kind of cure, all the 
scrofulous people of the island, either by sud- 
den inspiration, or by concerted action, present- 
ed themselves in a crowd at the Bu de la Rue , 
and with pitiable sores and imploring gestures, 
called on Gilliatt to make them clean. But he 
refused ; and herein the people found another 
proof of his malevolence. 


VI. 

THE DUTCH SLOOP. 

Such was the character of Gilliatt. 

The young women considered him ugly. 


Ugly he was not. He might, perhaps, have 
been called handsome. There was something 
in his profile of rude but antique grace. In re- 
pose it had some resemblance to that of a sculp- 
tured Dacian on the Trajan column. His ears 
were small, delicate* without lobes, and of an 
admirabfe form for hearing. Between his eyes 
he had that proud vertical hue, which indicates, 
in a man, boldness and perseverance. The cor- 
ners of his mouth were depressed, giving a slight 
expression of bitterness. His forehead had a 
calm and noble roundness. The clear pupils 
of his eyes possessed a steadfast look, although 
troubled a little with that involuntary move- 
ment of the eyelids which fishermen contract 
from the glitter of the waves. His laugh was 
boyish and pleasing. No ivory could be of a 
finer white than his teeth ; but exposure to the 
sun had made him swarthy as a Moor. The 
ocean, the tempest, and the darkness cannot be 
braved with impunity. At thirty, he looked, al- 
ready, like a man of forty-five. He wore the 
sombre mask of the wind and the sea. 

The people had nicknamed him Gilliatt, the 
evil one. 

There is an Indian fable to the effect that one 
day the god Brahma inquired of the Spirit of 
Power, “ Who is stronger than thee?” and the 
spirit replied, “Cunning.” A Chinese proverb 
says, “ What could not the lion do, if he was the 
monkey also?” Gilliatt was neither the lion 
nor the monkey ; but his actions gave some evi- 
dence of the truth of the Chinese proverb and 
of the Hindoo fable. Although only of ordinary 
height and strength, he was enabled, so invent- 
ive and powerful was his dexterity, to lift bur- 
dens that might have taxed a giant, and to ac- 
complish feats which would have done credit to 
an athlete. 

He had in him something of the power of the 
gymnast. He used, with equal address, his left 
hand and his right. 

He never carried a gun, but was often seen 
with his net. He spared the birds, but not the 
fish. His knowledge and skill as a fisherman 
were, indeed, very considerable. He was an 
excellent swimmer. 

Solitude either develops the mental powers, 
or renders men dull and vicious. Gilliatt some- 
times presented himself under both these as- 
pects. At times, when his features wore that 
air of strange surprise already mentioned, he 
might have been taken for a man of mental 
powers scarcely superior to the lower animals. 
At other moments, an indescribable air of pene- 
tration lighted up his face. Ancient Chaldea 
possessed some men of this stamp. At certain 
times the dulness of the shepherd mind became 
transparent, and revealed the inspired sage. 

After all, he was but a poor man ; uninstruct- 
ed, save to the extent of reading and writing. 
It was probable that the condition of his mind 
was at that limit which separates the dreamer 
from the thinker. The thinker wills, the dream- 
er is a passive instrument. Solitude sinks deep- 
ly into pure natures, and modifies them, in a 


i4 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


certain degree. They become, unconsciously, 
penetrated with a kind of sacred awe. The 
shadow, in which the mind of Gilliatt constant- 
ly dwelt, was composed in almost equal degrees 
of two elements, both obscure, but very differ- 
ent. Within himself all was ignorance and 
weakness; without, infirmity and mysterious 
power. 

By dint of frequent climbing on the rocks, 
of escalading the rugged cliffs, of going to and 
fro among the islands in all weathers, of navi- 
gating any sort of craft which came to hand, 
of venturing night and day in difficult channels, 
he had become, without taking count of his 
other advantages, and merely in following his 
fancy and pleasure, a seaman of extraordinary 
skill. 

He was a born pilot. The true pilot is the 
man who navigates the bed of the ocean even 
more than its surface. The waves of the sea 
are an external problem, continually modified 
by the submarine conditions of the waters in 
which the vessel is making her way. To see 
Gilliatt guiding his craft among the reefs and 
shallows of the Norman Archipelago, one might 
have fancied that he carried in his head a plan 
of the bottom of the sea. He was familiar with 
it all, and feared nothing. 

He was better acquainted with the buoys in 
the channels than the cormorants who make 
them their resting-places. The almost imper- 
ceptible differences which distinguish the four 
upright buoys of the Creux, Alligande, the Tre- 
aties, and the Sardrette, were perfectly visible 
and clear to him, even in misty weather. He 
hesitated neither at the oval, apple-headed buoy 
of Anfre, nor at the triple iron point of the 
Mousse , nor at the white ball of the Corbette, nor 
at the black ball of Longue Pierre; and there 
was no fear of his confounding the cross of 
Goubeau with the sword planted in earth at 
La Platte, nor the hammer-shaped buoy of the 
Barbees with the curled-tail buoy of the Moulinet. 

His rare skill in seamanship showed itself in 
a striking manner one day at Guernsey, on the 
occasion of one of those sea tournaments which 
are called regattas. The feat to be performed 
was to navigate alone a boat with four sails 
from St. Sampson to the Isle of Herm, at one 
league distance, and to bring the boat back 
from Herm to St. Sampson. To manage, with- 
out assistance, a boat with four sails, is a feat 
which every fisherman is equal to, and the diffi- 
culty seemed little ; but there was a condition 
which rendered it far from simple. The boat, 
to begin with, was one of those large and heavy 
sloops of bygone times which the sailors of the 
last century knew by the name of “Dutch Bel- 
lies.” This ancient style of flat, pot-bellied 
craft, carrying on the larboard and starboard 
sides, in compensation for the want of a keel, 
two wings which lower themselves, sometimes 
the one, sometimes the other, according to the 
wind, may occasionally be met with still at sea. 
In the second place, there was the return from 
Herm, a journey which was rendered more dif- 


ficult by a heavy ballasting of stones. The 
conditions were to go empty, but to return load- 
ed. The sloop was the prize of the contest. 
It was dedicated beforehand to the winner. 
This “Dutch Belly” had been employed as a 
pilot-boat. The pilot who had rigged and work- 
ed it for twenty years was the most robust of all 
the sailors of the Channel. When he died, no 
one had been found capable of managing the 
sloop ; and it was in consequence determined 
to make it the prize of the regatta. The sloop, 
though not decked, had some sea qualities, and 
was a tempting prize for a skilful sailor. Her 
mast was somewhat forward, which increased 
the motive power of her sails, besides having 
the advantage of not being in the way of her 
pilot. It was a strong-built vessel, heavy, but 
roomy, and taking the open sea well ; in fact, 
a good, serviceable craft. There was eager 
anxiety for the prize ; the task was a rough 
one, but the reward of success was worth having. 
Seven or eight fishermen among the most vig- 
orous of the island presented themselves. One 
by one they essayed, but not one could succeed 
in reaching Herm. The last one who tried his 
skill was known for having crossed, in a rowing 
boat, the terrible narrow sea between Sark and 
Brecq-Hou. Sweating with his exertions, he 
brought back the sloop, and said “ It is impos- 
sible.” Gilliatt then entered the bark, seized 
first of all the oar, then the mainsail, and pushed 
out to sea. Then, without either making fast 
the boom, which would have been imprudent, or 
letting it go, which kept the sail under his di- 
rection, and leaving the boom to move with the 
wind without tacking, he held the tiller with his 
left hand. In three quarters of an hour he was 
at Herm. Three hours later, although a strong 
breeze had sprung up and was blowing across 
the roads, the sloop, guided by Gilliatt, return- 
ed to St. Sampson with its load of stones. He 
had, with an extravagant display of his re- 
sources, even added to the cargo the little 
bronze cannon at Herm, which the people were 
in the habit of firing off on the 5th of November, 
byway of rejoicing over the death of Guy Fawkes. 

Guy Fawkes, by the way, has been dead one 
hundred and sixty years; a remarkably long 
period of rejoicing. 

Gilliatt, thus burdened and encumbered, al- 
though he had the Guy Fawkes’-day cannon in 
the boat and the south wind in his sails, steered, 
or rather brought back, the pot-bellied craft to 
St. Sampson. 

Seeing which, Mess Lethierry exclaimed, 
“ There’s a brave sailor for you !” 

And he held out his hand to Gilliatt. 

We shall have occasion to speak again of 
Mess Lethierry. 

The sloop was awarded to Gilliatt. 

This adventure detracted nothing from his 
evil reputation. 

Several persons declared that the feat was 
not at all astonishing, for that Gilliatt had con- 
cealed in the boat a branch of wild medlar. But 
this could not be proved. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


15 


From that day forward, Gilliatt navigated no 
boat except the old sloop. In this heavy craft 
he went on his fishing avocation. He kept it 
at anchor in the excellent little shelter which 
he had all to himself, under the very wall of his 
house of the Bu de la Rue. At nightfall, he 
cast his nets over his shoulder, traversed his lit- 
tle garden, climbed over the parapet of dry 
stones, stepped lightly from rock to rock, and, 
jumping into the sloop, pushed out to sea. 

He brought home heavy takes of fish ; but 
people state that his medlar branch was always 
hanging up in the boat. No one had ever seen 
this branch, but every one believed in its exist- 
ence. 

When he had more fish than he wanted, he 
did not sell it, but gave it away. 

The poor people took his gift, but were little 
grateful, for they knew the secret of his medlar 
branch. Such devices cannot be permitted. 
It is unlawful to trick the sea out of its treas- 
ures. 

He was a fisherman ; but he was something 
more. He had, by instinct or for amusement, 
acquired a knowledge of three or four trades. 
He was a cabinet-maker, worker in iron, wheel- 
wright, boat-caulker, and, to some extent, an 
engineer. No one could mend a broken wheel 
better than he could. He manufactured, in a 
fashion of his own, all the wheels which fisher- 
men use. In a little corner of the Bu de la Rue 
he had a small forge and an anvil; and the 
sloop having but one anchor, he had succeeded, 
without help, in making another. The anchor 
was excellent. The ring had the necessary 
strength ; and Gilliatt, though entirely unin- 
structed in this branch of the smith’s art, had 
found the exact dimensions of the stock for pre- 
venting the over-balancing of the fluke ends. 

He had patiently replaced all the nails in the 
planks by rivets, which rendered rust in the holes 
impossible. 

In this way he had much improved the sea- 
going qualities of the sloop. He employed it 
sometimes when he took a fancy to spend a 
month or two in some solitary islet, like Chou- 
sey or Les Casquets. People said “ Aye ! aye ! 
Gilliatt is away:” but this was a circumstance 
which nobody regretted. 


VII. 

A FIT TENANT FOR A HAUNTED HOUSE. 

Gilliatt was a man of dreams, hence his 
daring, hence also his timidity. He had ideas 
on many things which were peculiarly his own. 

There was in his character, perhaps, some- 
thing of the visionary and the trancendentalist. 
Hallucinations may haunt the poor peasant like 
Martin, no less than the king like Henry IV. 
There are times when the unknown reveals it- 
self in a mysterious way to the spirit of man. 
A sudden rent in the veil of darkness will make 
manifest things hitherto unseen, and then close 


again upon the mysteries within. Such visions 
have occasionally the power to effect a transfig- 
uration in those whom they visit. They con- 
vert a poor camel-driver into a Mohammed ; a 
peasant girl tending her goats into a Joan of 
Arc. Solitude generates a certain amount of 
sublime exaltation. It is like the smoke arising 
from the burning bush. A mysterious lucidity 
of mind results, which converts the student into 
a seer, and the poet into a prophet: herein we 
find a key to the mysteries of the Sinai, Kedron, 
Ombos; to the intoxication of the Castilian cam- 
els, the revelations of the month Busio. Hence, 
too, we have Peleia at Dodona, the sibyls at 
Delphos, Trophonius in Bceotia, of Ezekiel on 
the Kebar, and Jeremiah in the Thebaid. 

More frequently this visionary state over-, 
whelms and stupefies its victim. There is such 
a thing as divine besottedness. The Hindoo 
fakir bears about with him the burden of his 
vision, as the Cretin his goitre. Luther hold- 
ing converse with devils in his garret at Witten 
berg ; Pascal shutting out the view of the infer- 
nal regions with the screen of his cabinet ; the 
African Obi conversing with the white-faced 
god Bossum — on each and all the same phe- 
nomenon, diversely interpreted by the minds in 
which they manifest themselves, according to 
their capacity and power. Luther and Pascal 
were grand, and are grand still ; the Obi is sim- 
ply a poor, half-witted creature. 

Gilliatt was neither so exalted nor so low. 
He was a dreamer: nothing more. 

Nature presented itself to him under a some- 
what strange aspect. 

Just as he had often found in the perfectly 
limpid water of the sea strange creatures of con- 
siderable size and of various shapes, of the me- 
dusa genus, which out of the water bore a re- 
semblance to soft crystal, and which, cast again 
into the sea, became lost to sight in that medi- 
um by reason of their identity in transparency 
and colour, so he imagined that other transpa- 
rencies, similar to these almost invisible deni- 
zens of the ocean, might probably inhabit the air 
around us. The birds are scarcely inhabitants 
of the air, but rather amphibious creatures, 
passing much of their lives upon the earth. 
Gilliatt could not believe the air a mere desert. 
He used to say, “ Since the water is filled with 
life, why not the atmosphere?” Creatures col- 
ourless and transparent like the air would es- 
cape from our observation. What proof have 
we that there are no such creatures ? Analogy 
would indicate that the liquid fields of air must 
have their swimming habitants, even as the wa- 
ters of the, deep. These aerial fish would of 
course be diaphanous ; a provision of their wise 
Creator for our sakes as well as their own. Al- 
lowing the light to pass through their forms, 
casting no shadow, having no defined outline, 
they would necessarily remain unknown to us, 
and beyond the grasp of human sense. Gilli- 
att indulged the wild fancy that if it were pos- 
sible to exhaust the earth of its atmosphere, or 
that if we could fish the air as we fish the depths 


16 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


of the sea, we should discover the existence of a 
multitude of strange animals. And then, he 
would add in his reverie, many things would be 
made clear. 

Reverie, which is thought in its nebulous 
state, borders closely upon the land of sleep, by 
which it is bounded as by a natural frontier. 
The discovery of a new world, in the form of 
an atmosphere filled with transparent creatures, 
would be the beginning of a knowledge of the 
vast unknown. But beyond opens out the il- 
limitable domain of the possible, teeming with 
yet other beings, and characterized by other 
phenomena. All this would be nothing super- 
natural, but merely the occult continuation of 
the infinite variety of creation. In the midst 
of that laborious idleness, which was the chief 
feature in his existence, Gilliatt was singularly 
observant. He even carried his observations 
into the domain of sleep. Sleep has a close re- 
lation with the possible, or, as Frenchmen say, 
the invraisemblable. The world of sleep has an 
existence of its own. Night-time, regarded as 
a separate sphere of creation, is a universe in it- 
self. The material nature of man, upon which 
philosophers tell us that a column of air forty- 
five miles in height continually presses, is wea- 
ried out at night, sinks into lassitude, lies down, 
and finds repose. The eyes of the flesh are 
closed ; but in that drooping head, less inactive 
than is supposed, other eyes are opened. The 
unknown reveals itself. The shadowy exist- 
ences of the invisible world become more akin 
to man ; whether it be that there is a real com- 
munication, or whether things far off in the 
unfathomable abyss are mysteriously brought 
nearer, it seems as if the impalpable creatures 
inhabiting space come then to contemplate our 
natures, curious to comprehend the denizens of 
the earth. Some phantom creation ascends or 
descends to walk beside us in the dim twilight ; 
some existence altogether different from our 
own; composed partly of human consciousness, 
partly of something else, quits his fellows and 
returns again, after presenting himself for a mo- 
ment to our inward sight ; and the sleeper, not 
wholly slumbering, nor yet entirely conscious, 
beholds around him strong manifestations of 
life — pale spectres, terrible or smiling, dismal 
phantoms, uncouth masks, unknown faces, hy- 
dra-headed monsters, undefined shapes, reflec- 
tions of moonlight where there is no moon, vague 
fragments of monstrous forms. All these things 
which come and go in the troubled atmosphere 
of sleep, and to wdiich men give the name of 
dreams, are, in truth, only realities invisible to 
those who walk about the daylight world. 

So, at least, thought Gilliatt. 


VIII. 

THE GILD-HOLM-’ UK SEAT. 

The anxious visitor, in these days, would 
seek in vain in the little bay of Houmet for the 


house in which Gilliatt lived, or for his garden, 
or the creek in which he sheltered the Dutch 
sloop. The Bu de la Rue no longer exists. 
Even the little peninsula on which his house 
stood has vanished, levelled by the pickaxe of 
the quarryman, and carried away cart-load by 
cart-load, by dealers in rock and granite. It 
must be sought now in the churches, the pal- 
aces, and the quays of a great city. All that 
ridge of rocks has been long ago conveyed to 
London. 

These long lines of broken cliffs in the sea, 
with their frequent gaps and crevices, are like 
miniature chains of mountains. They strike 
the eye with the impression which a giant may 
be supposed to have in contemplating the Cor- 
dilleras. In the language of the country they 
are called “Banques.” These banques vary 
considerably in form. Some resemble a long 
spine, of which each rock forms one of the ver- 
tebrae ; others are like the back-bone of a fish ; 
while some bear an odd resemblance to a croco- 
dile in the act of drinking. 

At the extremity of the ridge on which the 
Bu de la Rue was situate was a large rock, 
which the fishing people of Houmet called the 
“Beast’s Horn.” This rock, a sort of pyramid, 
resembled, though less in height, the “ Pin- 
nacle” of Jersey. At high water the sea di- 
vided it from the ridge, and the Horn stood 
alone ; at low water it was approached by an 
isthmus of rocks. The remarkable feature of 
this “Beast’s Horn” was a sort of natural seat 
on the side next the sea, hollowed out by the 
water and polished by the rains. This seat, . 
however, was a treacherous one. The stranger 
was insensibly attracted to it by “the beauty 
of the prospect,” as the Guernsey folks said. 
Something detained him there in spite of him- 
self, for there is a charm in a wide view. The 
seat seemed to offer itself for his convenience ; 
it formed a sort of niche in the peaked facade 
of the rock. To climb up to it was easy, for the 
sea, which had fashioned it out of its rocky 
base, had also cast beneath it, at convenient 
distances, a kind of natural stairs composed of 
flat stones. The perilous abyss is full of these 
snares ; beware, therefore, of its proffered aids. 
The spot was tempting . the stranger mounted 
and sat down. There he found himself at his 
ease ; for his seat he had the granite rounded 
and hollowed out by the foam ; for supports, 
two rocky elbows which seemed made express- 
ly; against his back the high vertical wall of 
rock which he looked up to and admired, with- 
out thinking of the impossibility of scaling it. 
Nothing could be more simple than to fall into 
reverie in that convenient resting-place. All 
around spread the wide sea, far off the ships 
were seen passing to and fro. It was possible 
to follow a sail with the eye till it sank in the 
horizon beyond the Casquets. The stranger 
was entranced : he looked around, enjoying the 
beauty of the scene, and the light touch of wind 
and wave. There is a sort of bat found at Cay- 
enne, which has the power of fanning people to 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


17 


sleep In the shade with a gentle beating of its 
dusky wings. Like this strange creature the 
wind wanders about, alternately destroying or 
lulling into security. So the stranger would 
continue contemplating the sea, listening for a 
movement in the air, and yielding himself up to 
dreamy indolence. When the eyes are satiated 
with light and beauty, it is a luxury to close 
them for awhile. Suddenly the stranger would 
arouse ; but it was too late. The sea had crept 
up step by step ; the waters surrounded the 
rock ; the stranger had been lured on to his 
death. 

A terrible rock was this in a rising sea. 

The tide gathers at first insensibly, then with 
violence ; when it touches the rocks a sudden 
wrath seems to possess it, and it foams. Swim- 
ming is difficult in the breakers : excellent 
swimmers have been lost at the Horn of the Bu 
de la Rue. 

In certain places, and at certain periods, the 
aspect of the sea is dangerous — fatal; as at 
times is the glance of a woman. 

Very old inhabitants of Guernsey used to call 
this niche, fashioned in the rock by the waves, 


“ Gild-IIolm-’Ur” seat, or Kidormur; a Celtic 
word, say some authorities, which those who 
understand Celtic cannot interpret, and which 
all who understand French can — “ Qui-dort- 
meurt such is the country folks’ translation. 

The reader may choose between the trans- 
lation Qui-dort-meurt , and that given in 1819, I 
believe in The Armorican , by M. Athenoz. Ac- 
cording to this learned Celtic scholar, Gild- 
Holm-’Ur signifies “The resting-place of birds. ’ 

There is, at Aurigny, another seat of this 
kind, called the Monk's Chair, so well sculp- 
tured by the waves, and with steps of rock so 
conveniently placed, that it might be said that 
the sea politely sets a footstool for those who 
rest there. 

In the open sea, at high water, the Gild- 
Holm-’Ur was no longer visible ; the water cov- 
ered it entirely. 

The Gild-IIolm-’Ur was a neighbour of the 
Bu de la Rue. Gilliatt knew it well, and often 
seated himself there. Was it his meditating 
place? No. We have already said he did not 
meditate, but dream. The sea, however, never 
surprised him there. 


BOO 
MESS LET 
I. 

A TROUBLED LIFE, BUT A QUIET CONSCIENCE. 

Mess Lethierrt, a conspicuous man in 
Saint Sampson, was a redoubtable sailor. He 
had voyaged a great deal. He had been a cab- 
in-boy, seaman, topmast-man, second mate, 
mate, pilot, and captain. He was at this peri- 
od a privateer. There was not a man to com- 
pare with him for general knowledge of the sea.. 
He was brave in putting off to ships in distress. 
In foul weather he would take his way along 
the beach, scanning the horizon. “What have 
we yonder?” he would say; “some craft in 
trouble?” Whether it were an interloping 
Weymouth fisherman, a cutter from Aurigny, 
a bisquiore from Courseulle, the yacht of some 
nobleman, an English craft or a French one — 
poor or rich, mattered little. He jumped into 
a' boat, called together two or three strong fel- 
lows, or did without them, as the case might 
be ; pushed out to sea, rose and sank, and rose 
again on rolling waves, plunged into the storm, 
and encountered the danger face to face. Then 
far off, amid the storm and lightning, and 
drenched with water, he was sometimes seen 
upright in his boat like a lion with a foaming 
mane. Often he would pass whole days in dan- 
ger amidst the waves, the hail, and the wind, 
making his way to the sides of foundering ves- 
sels during the tempest, and rescuing men and 
merchandise At night, after feats like these, 
B 


K II. 

IIIERRY. 

he would return home, and pass his time in 
knitting stockings. 

For fifty years he led this kind of life — from 
ten years of age to sixty — so long did he feel 
himself still young. At sixty he began to dis- 
cover that he could lift no longer with one hand 
the great anvil at the forge at Yarclin. This 
anvil weighed three hundred weight. At length 
rheumatic pains compelled him to be a prison- 
er ; he was forced to give up his old struggle 
with the sea, to pass from the heroic into the 
patriarchal stage, to sink into the condition of 
a harmless, worthy old fellow. 

Happily his rheumatism attacks happened at 
the period when he had secured a comfortable 
competency. These two consequences of la- 
bour are rational companions. At the moment 
when men become rich, how often comes paraly- 
sis — the sorrowful crowning of a laborious life. 

Old and weary men say among themselves, 
“Let us rest and enjoy life.” 

The population of islands like Guernsey is 
composed of men who have passed their lives 
in going about their little fields, or in sailing 
round the world. These are the two classes of 
the labouring people — those who labour on the 
land, and those who toil upon the sea. Mees 
Lethierry was of the latter class ; he had had a 
life of hard work. He had been upon the Con- 
tinent, was for some years a ship-carpenter at 
Rochefort, and afterwards at Cette. We have 
* He who s*leep3 must die. 


18 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEX. 


just spoken of sailing round the world : he had 
made the circuit of all France, getting work as 
a journeyman carpenter ; lie had been employ- 
ed at the great salt-works of Franche-Comte. 
Though an humble man, he had led a life of 
adventure. In France he had learned to read, 
to think, to have a will of his own. He had 
had a hand in many things, and in all he had 
done had kept a character for probity. At bot- 
tom, however, he was simply a sailor. The 
water was his element ; he used to say that he 
lived with the fish when really at home. In 
short, his whole existence, except two or three 
years, had been devoted to the ocean. Flung 
into the water, as he said, he had navigated the 
great oceans both of the Atlantic and the Pa- 
cific, but he preferred the Channel. He used 
to exclaim enthusiastically, “That is the sea for 
a rough time of it!” Ho was born at sea, and 
at sea would have preferred to end his days. 
After sailing several times round the world, 
and seeing most countries, he hac returned to 
Guernsey, and never permanently left the isl- 
and again. Henceforth his great voyages were 
to Granville and St. Malo. 

Mess Lethierry was a Guernsey man — that 
peculiar amalgamation of Frenchman and Nor- 
man, or rather English. He had within him- 
self this quadruple extraction, merged and al- 
most lost in that far wider country, the ocean. 
Throughout his life, and wheresoever he went, 
he had preserved the habits of a Norman fish- 
erman. 

All this, however, did not prevent his look- 
ing now and then into some old book ; of taking 
pleasure in reading, in knowing the names of 
philosophers and poets, and in talking a little 
now and then in all languages. 


being a stickler for hands like those of a duch- 
ess. Such hands are indeed somewhat rare 
among the fishermen’s daughters at Portbail. 

It was whispered, however, that at Roche- 
fort, on the Charente, he had, once upon a time, 
made the acquaintance of a certain grisette re- 
alizing his ideal. She was a pretty girl, with 
graceful hands, but she was a sailor, and had 
also a habit of scratching. Woe betide any 
one who attacked her; her nails, though capa- 
ble at a pinch of being turned into claws, vere 
of a whiteness which left nothing to be desired. 
It was these peculiarly bewitching nails which 
had first enchanted and then disturbed the 
peace of Lethierry, who, fearing that he might 
one day become no longer master of his mis- 
tress, had decided not to conduct that young 
lady to the nuptial altar. 

Another time he met at Aurignv a country 
girl who pleased him. He thought of marriage, 
when one of the inhabitants of the place said to 
him, “I congratulate you; you will have for 
your wife a good fuel-maker.” Lethierry asked 
the meaning of this. It appeared that the 
country people at Aurignv have a certain cus- 
tom of collecting manure from their cow-houses, 
which they throw against a Avail, Avhcre it is left 
to dry and fall to the ground. Cakes of dried 
manure of this kind are used for fuel, and are 
called coipiaux. A country girl of Aurigny 
has no chance of getting a husband if she is not 
a good fuel-maker ; but the young lady’s spe- 
cial talent only inspired disgust in Lethierry. 

Besides, he had in his love matters a kind of 
rough country folks’ philosophy, a sailorlike 
sort of habit of mind. Ahvays smitten but 
never cnslaA'ed, he boasted of haA'ing been in 
his youth easily conquered by a petticoat, or 
rather a “ cotillon;" for what is now-a-davs 


II. 

A CERTAIN PREDILECTION. 

Gilliatt had in his nature something of the 
uncivilized man ; Mess Lethierry had the same. 

Lethierry’s uncultivated nature, hoAveA-er, Avas 
not Avithout certain refinements. 

He Avas fastidious upon the subject of wom- 
en’s hands. In his early years, Avhile still a 
lad, passing from the stage of cabin-boy to that 
of sailor, he had heard the Admiral de’ Suffren 
say, “There goes a pretty girl; but what horri- 
ble great red hands.” An observation from an 
admiral on any subject is a command, a la\v, 
an authority far above that of an oracle. The 
exclamation of Admiral de Suffren had render- 
ed Lethierry fastidious and exacting in the mat- 
ter of small and Avhite hands. His o\A r n hand, 
a large club fist of the colour of mahogany, Avas 
like a mallet or a pair of pincers for a friendly 
grasp, and, tightly closed, Avould almost break 
a paving-stone. 

He had never married ; be had either no in 
clination for matrimony, or had neA’er found a 
suitable match. That, perhaps, Avas due to his 


called a crinoline, Avas m his time called a co- 
tillon; a term, which in bis use of it signifies 
both something more and something less than a 
avoid an. 

These rude seafaring men of the Norman 
archipelago haA r e a certain amount of shrewd* 
ness. Almost all can read and Avrite. On 
Sundays little cabin-boys may be seen in those 
parts, seated upon a coil of ropes, reading, Avith 
I book in hand. From all time these Norman 
sailors have had a peculiar satirical vein, and 
liaA'e been famous for clever sayings. It Avas 
one of these men, the bold pilot Queripcl, avIio 
said to Montgomery, Avhen he sought refuge in 
Jersey after the unfortunate accident in killing 
! Henry IT. at a tournament Avith a Moav of his 
lance, “Tetefolle a cassg tete vide." Another 
( one, Touzeau, a sea-captain at Saint Brelade, 
Avas the author of that philosophical pun, erro- 
neously attributed to Camus, “ Apres la mort , 
les papes deviennent papi lions, et lest sires devien- 
nent cirons." 

j The mariners of the Channel, Avho arc the 
I true ancient Gauls — the islands, AA'hich in these 
I days become rapidly more and more English — 
presented for many ages their old French char- 
acter. The peasant in Sark speaks the lar,- 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


19 


gunge of Louis XI Y. Forty years ago, the old 
classical nautical language was to be found in 
the mouths of the sailors of Jersey and Aurigny. 
When amongst them, it was possible to imagine 
oneself carried back to the sea life of the seven- 
teenth century. From that speaking-trumpet 
which terrified Admiral Hidde, a philologist 
might have learnt the ancient technicalities of 
manoeuvring and giving orders at sea, in the 
very words w-hich \vere roared out to his sailors 
by Jean Bart. The old French maritime vo- 
cabulary is now almost entirely changed, but 
was still in use in Jersey in 1820. 

It was with this uncouth sea dialect in his 
mouth that Duquesne beat De Ruyter, that 
Duguay Trouin defeated Wasnaer, and that 
Tourville, in 1681, poured a broadside into the 
first galley which bombarded Algiers. It is 
now a dead language. The idiom of the sea 
is altogether different. Duperre would not be 
able to understand Suffrcn. 

The language of French naval signals is not 
less transformed; there is a long distance be- 
tween the four pennants, red, white, yellow, and 
blue, of Labourdonnage, and the eighteen flags 
of these days, which, hoisted two and two, three 
and three, or four and four, furnish, for distant 
communication, sixty-six thousand combina- 
tions, are never deficient, and, so to speak, pro- 
vide for unforeseen emergencies. 


III. 

MESS LETHIERRY’S VULNERABLE PART. 

Mess Lethierry carried his heart upon his 
sleeve — a large sleeve and a large heart. His 
failing was that admirable one, self-confidence. 
He had a certain fashion of his own of under- 
taking to do a thing. It was a solemn fashion 
He said, “I give my word of honour to do it, 
with God’s help.” That said, he went through 
with his duty. He put his trust in Providence, 
nothing more. The little that he went to 
church was merely formal. At sea, he w-as su- 
perstitious. 

Nevertheless, the storm had never yet arisen 
which could daunt him. One reason of this 
was his impatience of opposition. He could 
tolerate it neither from the ocean nor from any- 
thing else. He meant to have his way; so 


much the worse for the sea if it thwarted him. 
It might try, if it would, but Mess Lethierry 
would not give in. A refractory wave could no 
more stop him than an angry neighbour. What 
he had said was said ; what he planned out w r as 
done. He bent neither before an objection nor 
before the tempest. The word “no” had n<> 
existence for him, w'hether it was in the mouth 
of a man or in the angry muttering of a thunder 
cloud. In the teeth of all he w r ent on in his 
way. lie would take no refusals. Hence his ob- 
stinacy in life, and his intrepidity on the ocean. 

He seasoned his simple meal of fish soup for 
himself, knowing the quantities of pepper, salt, 
and herbs which it required, and was as well 
pleased with the cooking as with the meal To 
complete the sketch of Lethierry’s peculiarities, 
-the reader must conjure a being to w'hom the 
putting on a surtout would amount to a trans- 
figuration ; whom a landsman’s great-coat w ould 
convert into a strange animal ; one who, stand- 
ing with his locks blown about by the wind, 
might have represented old Jean Bart, but w ho, 
in the landsman’s round hat, would have looked 
an idiot ; awkward in cities, wild and redoubta- 
ble at sea; a man with broad shoulders, fit for 
a porter; one who indulged in no oaths, was 
rarely in anger, whose voice had a soft accent, 
vhich became like thunder in a speaking-trum- 
pet , a peasant w ho had read something of the 
philosophy of Diderot and D’Alembert ; a Guern- 
sey man who had seen the Great Revolution ; a 
learned ignoramus, free from bigotry, but in- 
dulging in visions, with more faith in the White 
Lady than in the Holy Virgin; possessing the 
strength of Polyphemus, the perseverance of 
dolumbus, with a little of the bull in his nature, 
and a little of the child. Add to these physical 
and mental peculiarities a somewhat flat nose, 
large cheeks, a set of teeth still perfect, a face 
filled with wrinkles, and which seemed to have 
been buffeted by the waves and subjected to 
the beating of the winds of forty years, a brow- 
in which the storm and tempest were plainly 
written — an incarnation of a rock in the open 
sea — maybe, with this, too, a good-tempered 
smile always ready to light up his weatherbeat- 
en countenance, and you have before you Mess 
Lethierry. 

Mess Lethierry had two special objects of af- 
fection only. Their names were Durande and 
Deruchette. 


20 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


BOOK III. 


DURANDE AND DERUCHETTE. 


I. 

PRATTLE AND SMOKE. 

The human body might well be regarded as 
a mere simulacrum ; but it envelops our real- 
ity, it cankers our light, and broadens the shad- 
ow in which we live. The soul is the reality 
of our existence. To speak accurately, the hu- 
man visage is a mask. The true man is that 
which exists under what is called man. If that 
being, which thus exists sheltered and secreted 
behind that illusion which we call the flesh, 
could be approached, more than one strange 
revelation would be made. The vulgar error is 
to mistake the outward husk for the living spir- 
it. Yonder girl, for example, if we could see 
her as she really is, might she not figure as some 
bird of the air? 

A bird transmuted into a young maiden, 
what could be more exquisite? Picture it in 
your own home, and call it De'ruchette. De- 
licious creature ! One might be almost tempt- 
ed to say, “ Good-morning, Mademoiselle Gold- 
finch.” The wings are invisible, but the chirp- 
ing may still be heard. Sometimes, too, she 
pipes a clear, loud song. In her childlike prat- 
tle, the creature is, perhaps, inferior ; but in her 
song, how superior to humanity. When wom- 
anhood dawns, this angel flies aw r ay ; but some- 
times returns, bringing back a little one to a 
another. ' Meanwhile, she who is one day to be 
a mother is for a long while a child; the girl 
becomes a maiden, fresh and joyous as the lark. 
Noting her movements, we feel as if it was good 
of her not to fly away. The dear familiar com- 
panion moves at her own sweet will about the 
house, flits from branch to branch, or rather 
from room to room ; goes to and fro ; approach- 
es and retires ; plumes her wings, or rather 
combs her hair, and makes all kinds of gentle 
noises — murmurings of unspeakable delight to 
certain ears. She asks a question, and is an- 
swered ; is asked something in return, and chirps 
a reply. It is delightful to chat with her when 
tired of serious talk ; for this creature carries 
with her something of her skyey element. She 
is, as it were, a thread of gold interwoven with 
your sombre thoughts ; you feel almost grateful 
to her for her kindness in not making herself 
invisible, when it would be so easy for her to be 
even unpalpable ; for the beautiful is a neces- 
sary of life. There is, in this world, no func- 
tion more important than that of charming. 
The forest-glade would be incomplete without 
the humming-bird. To shed joy around, to 
radiate happiness, to cast light upon dark days, 
to be the golden thread of our destiny, and the 
very spirit of grace and harmony, is not this to 
render a service? Does not beauty confer a 


benefit upon us, even by the simple fact of be* 
ing beautiful ? Here and there we meet with 
one who possesses that fairy-like power of en- 
chanting all about her ; sometimes she is igno- 
rant herself of this magical influence, which is, 
however, for that reason only the more perfect. 
Her presence lights up the home ; her approach 
j is like a cheering warmth : she passes by, and 
I we are content ; she stays awhile, and we are 
I happy. To behold her is to live : she is the 
Aurora with a human face. She has no need 
to do more than simply to be : she makes an 
Eden of the house ; Paradise breathes from 
| her ; and she communicates this delight to all, 
without taking any greater trouble than that of 
j existing beside them. Is it not a thing divino 
I to have a smile which, none know how, has the 
power to lighten the weight of that enormous 
j chain which all the living, in common, drag be- 
I hind them ? Deruchette possessed this smile : 
we may even say that this smile was Deruchette 
herself. There is one thing which has more 
resemblance to ourselves even than our face, 
and that is our physiognomy : but there is yet 
another thing which more resembles us than 
this, and that is our smile. Deruchette smiling 
was simply De'ruchette. 

There is something peculiarly attractive in 
the Jersey and Guernsey race. The women, 
particularly the young, are remarkable for a 
pure and exquisite beauty. Their complexion 
is a combination of the Saxon fairness with the 
proverbial ruddiness of the Norman people — 
rosy cheeks and blue eyes ; but the eyes want 
brilliancy. The English training dulls them. 
Their liquid glances will be irresistible when- 
ever the secret is found of giving them that 
depth which is the glory of the Parisienne. 
Happily Englishwomen are not yet quite trans- 
| formed into the Parisian type. Deruchette was 
not a Parisian ; yet she was certainly not a 
; Guernesiaise. Lethierry had brought her up 
to be neat, and delicate, and pretty ; and so she 
was. 

De'ruchette had, at times, an air of hewitch- 
j ing languor, and a certain mischief in the eye 
; which were altogether involuntary. She scarce- 
. ly knew, perhaps, the meaning of the word love, 

| and yet not unwillingly ensnared those about 
j her in the toils. But all this in her was inno- 
j cent. She had never thought of marrying. 

De'ruchette had the prettiest little hands in 
the world, and little feet to match them. Sweet- 
ness and goodness reigned throughout her per- 
son ; her family and fortune were her uncle 
Mess Lethierry ; her occupation was only to 
live her daily life ; her accomplishments wero 
the knowledge of a few r songs ; her intellectual 
gifts were summed up in her simple innocence; 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


21 


she had the graceful repose of the West Indian 
woman, mingled at times with giddiness and 
vivacity, with the teasing playfulness of a child, 
yet with a dash of melancholy. Her dress was 
somewhat rustic, and like that peculiar to her 
country — elegant, though not in accordance 
with the fashions of great cities ; for she wore 
flowers in her bonnet all the year round. Add 
to all this an open brow, a neck supple and 
graceful, chestnut hair, a fair skin slightly freck- 
led with exposure to the sun, a mouth some- 
what large, but well-defined, and visited from 
time to time by a dangerous smile. Such was 
Deruchette. 

Sometimes, in the evening, a little after sun- 
set, at the moment when the dusk of the sky 
mingles with the dusk of the sea, and twilight 
invests the waves with a mysterious aw'e, the 
people beheld, entering the harbour of St. Samp- 
son, upon the dark rolling waters, a strange, un- 
defined thing, a monstrous form which puffed 
and blew r ; a horrid machine which roared like 
a wild beast, and smoked like a volcano ; a spe- 
cies of Hydra foaming among the breakers, and 
leaving behind it a dense cloud, as it rushed on 
towards the town with a frightful beating of its 
fins, and a throat belching forth flame. This 
was Durande. 


II. 

THE OLD STORY OF UTOPIA. 

A steam-boat w'as a prodigious novelty in the 
waters of the Channel in 182-. The whole 
coast of Normandy was long strangely excited 
by it. Now-a-days r ten or a dozen steam ves- 
sels, crossing and recrossing within the bounds 
of the horizon, scarcely attract a glance from 
loiterers on the shore. At the most, some per- 
sons, whose interest or business it is to note such 
things, will observe the indications in their 
smoke, of whether they burn Welsh or New- 
castle coal. They pass, and that is all. Wel- 
come, if coming home; “a pleasant passage,” 
if outward bound. 

Folks were less calm on the subject of these 
w'ondcrful inventions in the first quarter of the 
present century ; and the new and strange ma- 
chines, and their long lines of smoke, were re- 
garded with no good-will l>y the Channel Isl- 
anders. In that Puritanical Archipelago, where 
the Queen of England has been censured for 
violating the Scriptures* by using chloroform 
during her accouchements, the first steam ves- 
sel which made its appearance received the 
name of the “Devil Boat.” In the eyes of 
these worthy fishermen, once Catholics, now' 
Calvinists, but always, bigots, it seemed to be a 
- portion of the infernal regions which had been 
somehow set aflQat. A local preacher selected 
for his discourse the question of “ Whether man 
has the right to make fire and water work to- 
gether when Godhaddivided them. ”f No. This 
beast, composed of iron and fire, did it not re- 

* Genesis, chap, iii., v. 1C. t Genesis, chap, i., v. 4. 


semble leviathan? Was it not an attempt to 
bring chaos again into the universe? This is 
not the only occasion on which the progress of 
civilization has been stigmatized as a return to 
chaos. 

“A mad notion, a gross delusion, an absurdi- 
ty !” Such was the verdict of the Academy of 
Sciences when consulted by Napoleon, on the 
subject of steam-boats, early in the present cen- 
tury. The poor fishermen of St. Sampson may 
be excused for not being, in scientific matters, 
any wiser than the mathematicians of Paris; 
and in religious matters, a little island like 
Guernsey is not bound to be more enlightened 
than a great continent like America. In the 
year 1807, w'hen the first steam-boat of Fulton, 
commanded by Livingston, furnished with one 
of Watt’s engines, sent from England, and ma- 
noeuvred, besides her ordinary crew, by two 
Frenchmen only, Andre Michaux and another, 
made her first voyage from New York to Al- 
bany, it happened that she set sail on the 17th 
of A ugust. The Methodists took up this im- 
portant fact, and in numberless chapels, preach- 
ers were heard calling down a malediction on 
the machine, and declaring that this number 17 
was no other than the total of the ten horns and 
seven heads of the beast in the Apocalypse. In 
America, they invoked against the steam-boats 
the beast from the book of Revelations ; in Eu- 
rope, the reptile of the book of Genesis. That 
was the simple difference. 

The savants had rejected steam-boats as im- 
possible ; the priests had anathematized them 
as impious. Science had condemned, and re- 
ligion consigned them to perdition. Fulton 
was a new incarnation of Lucifer. The simple 
people on the coasts and in the villages were 
confirmed in their reprobation by the uneasiness 
which they felt at the outlandish sight. The re- 
ligious view of steam-boats may be summed up 
as follows : Water and fire were divorced at the 
creation. This divorce was enjoined by God 
himself. Man has no right to join what his 
Maker has put asunder ; to reunite what he has 
disunited. The peasants’ view was simply, “I 
don’t like the look of this thing.” 

No one but Mess Lethierry, perhaps, could 
have been found at that early period daring 
enough to dream of such an enterprise as the 
establishment of a steam vessel between Guern- 
sey and St. Malo. He alone, as an independent 
thinker, was capable of conceiving such an idea, 
or, as a hardy mariner, of carrying it out. The 
French part of his nature, probably, conceived 
the idea ; the English part supplied the energy 
to put in execution. 

How and Avhen this was, we are about to in* 
form the >°ader. 


III. 

RAXTAINE. 

About forty years before the period of the 
commencement of our narrative, there stood in 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


<>o 

the suburbs of Paris, near the city wall, between 
the Fosse-aux-Loups and the Tombe-Issoire, a 
house of doutbtful reputation. It was a lonely, 
ruinous building, evidently a place for dark deeds 
on an occasion. Here lived with his wife and 
child a species of town bandit ; a man who had 
been clerk to an attorney practising at the Cha- 
telet — he figured somewhat later at the Assize 
Court ; the name of this family was Rantaine. 
On a mahogany chest of drawers in the old 
house were two china cups, ornamented with 
flowers, on one of which appeared, in gilt letters, 
the words, “A souvenir of friendship;” on the 
other, “A token of esteem.” The child lived 
in an atmosphere of vice in this miserable home. 
The father and mother having belonged to the 
lower middle class, it had learnt to read, and 
they brought it up in a fashion. The mother, 
pale and almost in rags, gave “ instruction,” as 
she called it, mechanically to the little one, 
heard it spell a few words to her, and interrupt- 
ed the lesson to accompany her husband on 
some criminal expedition, or to earn the wages 
of prostitution. Meanwhile, the holy book re- 
mained open on the table as she had left it, and 
the boy sat beside it, meditating in its way. 

The father and mother, detected one day in 
one of their criminal enterprises, suddenly van- 
ished into that obscurity in which the penal 
laws envelop convicted malefactors. The child, 
too, disappeared. 

Lethierry, in his wanderings about the world, 
stumbled one day on an adventurer like him- 
self; helped him out of some scrape; rendered 
him a kindly service, and was apparently repaid 
with gratitude. He took a fancy to the stran- 
ger, picked him up, and brought him to Guern- 
sey, where, finding him intelligent in learning 
the duties of a sailor aboard a coasting vessel, 
he made him a companion. This stranger was 
the little Rantaine, new grown up to manhood. 

Rantaine, like JYethierry, had a bull neck, a 
Yarge and powerful breadth of shoulders for car- 
rying burdens, and loins like those of the Far- 
nese Hercules. Lethierry and he had a re- 
markable similaiity of appearance : Rantaine 
was the taller. People who saw them from be- 
hind as they were walking side by side along 
the port, exclaimed, “There are two brothers.” 
On looking them in the face the effect was dif- 
ferent: all’ that was open in the countenance 
of Lethierry 'was reserved and cautious in that 
of Rantaine. Rantaine was an expert swords- 
man, played on the harmonica, could snuff a 
candle at twenty paces with a pistol-ball, could 
strike a tremendous blow with the fist, recite 
verses from Voltaire’s “Ilenriade,” and inter- 
pret dreams; he knew by heait “ Les Tombeanx 
de Saint Denis ,” by Treneuil. He talked some- 
times of having had relations with the Sultan 
of Calicut, “whom the Portuguese call the 
Zamorin.” If any one had seen the little 
memorandum-book which he carried about with 
him, he would have found notes and jottings of 
this kind: “At Lyons, in a fissure of the wall 
of one of the cells in the prison of St. Josej h, a 


[ file.” He spoke always with a grave delibera- 
tion ; he called himself the son of a Chevalier 
de Saint Louis. His linen was of a miscellane- 
ous kind, and marked with different initials. 
Nobody was ever more tender than he was on 
the point of honour ; he fought and killed his 
man. The mother of a pretty actress could 
not have an eye more watchful for an insult. 

He might have stood for the personification 
of subtlety under an outer garb of enormous 
strength. 

It was the power of his fist, applied one day 
at a fair upon a Cabeza de noro , which had orig- 
inally taken the fancy of Lethierry. No one 
in Guernsey knew anything of his adventures. 
They were of a chequered kind. If the great 
theatre of destiny had a special wardrobe, Ran 
taine ought to have taken the dress of harle- 
quin. He had lived, and had seen the world. 
He had run through the gamut of possible trades 
and qualities ; had been a cook at Madagascar, 
trainer of birds at Honolulu, a religious jour- 
nalist at the Galapagos Islands, a poet at Com- 
rawuttee, a freeman at Hayti. In this latter 
character he had delivered at Grand Goave a 
funeral oration, of which the local journals have 
preserved this fragment: “Farewell, then, no- 
ble spirit. In the azure vault of the heavens, 
where thou wingest now thy flight, thou wilt no 
doubt rejoin the good Abbe Leander Crameau, 
of Little Goave. Tell him that, thanks to ten 
years of glorious efforts, thou hast completed 
the church of the Anse-ii- Veav. Adieu! tran- 
scendent genius, model mason!” His freema- 
son’s mask did not prevent him, as we see, wear- 
ing a little of the Roman Catholic. The for- 
mer won to his side the men of progress, and 
the latter the men of order. He declared him- 
self a white of pure caste, and- hated the ne- 
groes; though for all that, he would certainly 
have been an admirer of the Emperor Sou- 
louque. In 1815, at Bordeaux, the glow of his 
royalist enthusiasm broke forth in the shape of 
a huge white feather in his cap. His life had 
been a series of eclipses, of appearances, disap- 
pearances, and reappearances. He was a sort 
of revolving light on the coasts of scampdom. 
He knew a little Turkish; instead of “guillo- 
tined” would say ll n€bo'iss£” He had been a 
slave in Tripoli, in the house of a Thaleb, and 
had learnt Turkish by dint of blows with a 
stick. His employment had been to stand at 
evenings at the doors of the mosque, there to 
read aloud to the faithful the Koran inscribed 
upon slips of wood, or pieces of camel leather. 
It is not improbable that he was a renegade. 

He was capable of everything, and something 
worse. 

He had a trick of laughing loud and knitting 
his brows at the same time. He used to say, 
“In politics, I esteem only men inaccessible to 
its influences ,” or, “lam for decency and good 
morals;” Or, “The pyramid must be replaced 
upon its base. ’ His manner was rather cheer- 
ful and cordial than otherwise. The expres- 
i sion of his mouth contradicted the sense of his 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


23 


words. His nostrils had an odd way of distend- 
ing themselves. In the corners of his eyes he 
had a little network of wrinkles, in which all 
sorts of dark thoughts seemed to meet together. 
It was here alone that the secret of his physiog- 
nomy could be thoroughly studied. His flat 
foot was a vulture’s claw. His skull was low 
at the top and large about the temples. His 
ill-shapen ear, bristling with hair, seemed to 
say, “Beware of speaking to the beast in this 
cave.” 

One fine day in Guernsey, Rantaine was sud- 
denly missing. 

Lethierry’s comrade had absconded, leaving 
the treasury of their partnership empty. 

In this treasury there was some money of 
Rantaine’s, no doubt, but there were also fifty 
thousand francs belonging to Lethierry. 

Lethierry, by forty years of industry and prob- 
ity as a coaster and ship-carpenter, had saved 
one hundred thousand francs. Iiintaine rob- 
bed him of half the sum. 

Half ruined, Lethierry did not lose heart, but 
began at once to think how to repair his mis- 
fortune. A stout heart may be ruined in for- 
tune, but not in spirit. It was just about that 
time that people began to talk of the new kind 
of boat to be moved by steam-engines. Le- 
th Jerry conceived the idea of trying Fulton’s in- 
vention, so much disputed about ; and by one 
of these fireboats to connect the Channel Isl- 
ands with the French coast. He staked his all 
upon this idea; he devoted to it the wreck of 
his savings. Accordingly, six months after 
Rantaine’s flight, the astonished people of St. 
Sampson beheld, issuing from the port, a vessel 
discharging huge volumes of smoke, and look- 
ing like a ship a-fire at sea This was the first 
steam vessel to navigate the Channel. 

This vessel, to which the people, in their dis- 
like and contempt for novelty, immediately gave 
the nickname of “ Lethierry’s Galley,” was an- 
nounced as intended to maintain a constant 
communication between Guernsey and St. Malo. 


IV. 

CONTINUATION OF THE STORY OF UTOPIA. 

It may be well imagined that the new enter- 
prise did not prosper much at first. The own- 
ers of cutters passing between the island of 
Guernsey and the French coast were loud in 
their outcries. They denounced this attack 
upon the Holy Scriptures and their monopoly. 
The chapels began to fulminate against it. One 
reverend gentleman, named Elihu, stigmatized 
the new steam vessel as an “atheistical con- 
struction,” and the sailing boat was declared 
the only orthodox craft. The people saw the 
horns of the devil among the beasts which the 
fireship carried to and fro. This storm of pro- 
test continued a considerable time. At last, 
however, it began to be perceived that these an- 
imals arrived less tired and sold better, their 


meat being superior; that the sea risk was less 
also for passengers ; that this mode of travelling 
was less expensive, shorter, and more sure ; that 
they started at a fixed time, and arrived at a 
fixed time ; that consignments of fish, travelling 
faster, arrived fresher, and that it was now pos- 
sible to find a rent in the French markets for 
the surplus of great takes of fish so common in 
Guernsey. The butter, too, from the far-famed 
Guernsey cows, made the passage quicker in the 
“Devil Boat” than in the old sailing vessels, 
and lost nothing of its good quality, insomuch 
that Dinan, in Brittany, became a customer for 
it, as well as St. Brieuc and Rennes. In short, 
thanks to what they called “Lethierry’s Galley,” 
the people enjoyed safe travelling, regular com- 
munication, prompt and easy passages to and 
fro, an increase of circulation, and an extension 
of markets and of commerce, and, finally, it was 
felt that it was necessary to patronize this “Dev- 
il Boat,” which flew in the face of the Holy Scrip- 
tures, and brought wealth to the island. Some 
daring spirits even went so far as to express a 
positive satisfaction at it. Sieur Landoys, the 
registrar, bestowed his approval upon the vessel 
— an undoubted piece of impartiality on his 
part, as he did not like Lethierry. For, first 
of all, Lethierry was entitled to the dignity of 
“Mess,” while Landoys was merely “Sieur 
Landoys.” Then, although registrar of St.Fierre 
Port, Landoys was a parishioner of St. Samp- 
son. Now there was not in the entire parish 
another man besides them devoid of prejudices. 
It seemed little enough, therefore, to indulge 
themselves with a detestation of each other. 
Two of a trade, says the proverb, rarely agree. 

Sieur Landoys, however, had the honesty to 
support the steam-boat. Others followed Lan- 
doys. By little and little, these facts multi- 
plied. The growth of opinion is like the rising 
tide. Time, and the continued and increasing 
success of the venture, with the evidence of real 
service rendered, and the improvement in the 
general welfare, gradually converted the peo- 
ple ; and the day at length arrived when, with 
the exception of a few wiseacres, every one ad- 
mired “Lethierry’s Galley.” 

It would probably win less admiration now- 
a-days. This steam-boat of forty years since 
would doubtless provoke a smile among our 
modern boat-builders ; for this marvel was ill- 
shaped, this prodigy was clumsy and infirm. 

The distance between our grand Atlantic 
steam vessels of the present day and the boats 
with wheel-paddles which Denis Papin floated 
on the Fulda in 1707, is not greater than that 
between a three-decker, like the Montebello, 
200 feet long, having a main yard of 115 feet, 
carrying a weight of 3000 tons, 1100 men, 120 
guns, 10,000 cannon-balls, and 1G0 packages of 
canister, belching forth at every broadside, when 
in action, 3300 pounds of iron, and spreading to 
the wind, when it moves, 5600 square metres of 
canvas, and the old Danish galley of the second 
century, discovered, full of stone hatchets, and 
bows and clubs, in the mud of the sea-ehore c,t 


24 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


Wester- Satritp, and preserved at the Hotel de 
Ville at Flensburg. 

Exactly one hundred years — from 1707 to 
1807 — separate the first paddle-boat of Papin 
from the first steam-boat of Fulton. Lethier- 
ry’s galley was assuredly a great improvement 
upon those two rough sketches ; but it was it- 
self only a sketch. For all that, it was a mas- 
terpiece in its way. Every scientific discovery 
in embryo presents that double aspect — a mon- 
ster in the foetus, a marvel in the germ. 


Y. 

THE DEVIL BOAT. 

“Letiiierry's Galley'” was not masted with 
a view to sailing well ; a fact Avhich Avas not a 
defect ; it is, indeed, one of the Iravs of naval 
construction. Besides, her motive power being 
steam, her sails Avere only accessory. A paddle 
steam-boat, moreover, is almost insensible to 
sails. The new steam vessel Avas too round, 
short, and thick-set. She had too much boAV, 
and too great a breadth of quarter. The daring 
of inventors had not yet reached the point of 
making a steam A’essel light. Letiiierry’s boat 
had some of the defects of Gilliatt’s Dutch sloop. 
She pitched very little, but she rolled a good 
deal. She had too much beam for her length. 
The massive machinery encumbered her, and, 
to make her capable of carrying a heavy cargo, 
her constructors had raised her bulwarks to an 
unusual height, giving to the vessel the defects of 
old seventy-fours, a bastard model Avhich vvould 
have to be cut down to render them really sea- 
Avorthv, or fit to go into action. Being short, 
she ought to haA r c been able to veer quickly — 
the time employed in a manoeuvre of that kind 
being in proportion to the length of the A'essel — • 
but her weight deprived her of the advantage 
of her shortness. Her midship frame Avas too 
broad, a fact Avhich retarded her, the resistance 
of the sea being proportioned to the largest sec- 
tion below the Avater-line, and to the square of 
the speed. Her provv Avas vertical, Avhich vvould 
not be regarded as a fault at the present day, 
but at that period this portion of the construc- 
tion Avas invariably sloped at an angle of forty- 
five degrees. All the curving lines of the hull 
agreed Avell together. The rudder Avas the old- 
fashioned bar-rudder, not the Avheeled one of 
the present time. Two skiffs, a species of you- 
yous , Avere suspended to the davits. The ves- 
sel had four anchors — the sheet anchor, the sec- 
ond or Avorking anchor, and tvvo bower an- 
chors. These four anchors, slung by chains, 
Avere moved, according to the occasion, by the 
great capstan of the poop, or by the small cap- 
stan at the provv. At that period the pump- 
action Avindlass had not superseded the inter- 
mitting efforts of the old handspike. Having 
only two bower anchors, one on the starboard 
and the other on the larboard side, the vessel 
could not moA r e conveniently in certain vvinds, 


though she could aid herself at such times vvith 
the second anchor. Her speed was six knots 
an hour. When lying-to she rode well. Take 
her as she was, “Letiiierry’s Galley” was a good 
sea-boat; but people felt that, in moments of 
danger from reefs or vvater-spouts, she vvould be 
hardly manageable. Unhappily, her build made 
her roll about on the waves vvith a perpetual 
creaking like that of a nevv shoe. 

She AA r as, above all, a merchandise boat, and, 
like all ships built more for commerce than for 
fighting, Avas constructed exclush r ely with a view 
to stOAvage. She carried fevv passengers. The 
transport of cattle rendered stovvage difficult and 
very peculiar. Vessels carried bullocks at that 
time in the hold, which Avas a complication of 
the difficulty. At the present day they are 
stoAved on the fore-deck. The paddle-boxes of 
Lethierry’s “Devil Boat” Avere painted white, 
the hull, down to the Avater-Iine, red, and all the 
rest of the A'essel black, according to the some- 
what ugly fashion of this century. When emp- 
ty she dreAV seven feet of water, and Avhen laden 
fourteen. 

With regard to the engine, it was of consid- 
erable power. To speak exactly, its pOAver v/as 
equal to that of one horse to every three tons 
burden, Avhich is almost equal to that of a tug- 
boat. The paddles were Avell placed, a little in 
advance of the centre of gravity of the vessel. 
The maximum pressure of the engine Avas equal 
to tAvo atmospheres. It consumed a great deal 
of coal, although it Avas constructed on the con- 
densation and expansion principles. For that 
period the engine seemed, and indeed Avas, ad- 
mirable. It had been constructed in France, at 
the Avorks at Bercy. Mess Lethierry had rough- 
ly sketched it ; the engineer Avho had construct- 
ed it in accordance Avith his diagram Avas dead, 
so that the engine Avas unique, and probably 
could not haA'e been replaced. The designer 
still liA'ed, but the constructor was no more. 

The engine had cost forty thousand francs. 

Lethierry had himself constructed the “Devil 
Boat” upon the great covered stocks by the side 
of the first tOAver betAveen St. Pierre Port and 
St. Sampson. He had been to Brcme to buy 
the Avood. All his skill as a shipAvright Avas ex- 
hausted in its construction ; his ingenuity might 
be seen in the planks, the seams of Avhich Avere 
straight and eA'en, and covered Avith sarangousti, 
an Indian mastic, better than resin. The sheath- 
ing Avas Avell beaten. To remedy the roundness 
of the hull, Lethierry had fitted out a boom at 
the boAvsprit, Avhich alloAved him to add a false 
spritrail to the regular one. On the day of the 
launch, he cried aloud, “At last I am afloat!” 
The vessel Avas successful, in fact, as the reader 
has already learnt. 

Either by chance or design she had been 
launched on the 14th of July, the anniversary 
of the taking of the Bastille. On that day, 
mounted upon the bridge betAveen the two pad- 
dle-boxes, looked Lethierry upon the sea, and ex- 
claimed, “ Jt is your turn noAv! The Parisians 
took the Bastille, noAv sciences take the sea ” 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


25 


Lethierry’s boat made the voyage from Guern- 
sey to St. Malo once a week. She started on 
the Tuesday morning, and returned on the Fri- 
day evening, in time for the Saturday market. 
She was a stronger craft than any of the largest 
coasting sloops in all the archipelago, and her 
capacity being in proportion to her dimensions, 
one of her voyages was equal to four voyages of 
an ordinary boat in the same trade; hence they 
were very profitable. The reputation of a vessel 
depends on its stowage, and Lethierry was an 
admirable superintendent of cargo. When he 
was no longer able to work himself, he trained 
up a sailor to undertake this duty. At the end 
of two years, the steam-boat brought in a clear 
seven hundred and fifty pounds sterling a-year, 
or eighteen thousand francs. The pound ster- 
ling of Guernsey is worth twenty-four francs 
only ; that of England twenty-five, and that of 
Jersey twenty-six. These differences are less 
unimportant than they seem ; the banks, at all 
events, know how to turn them to advantage. 


VI. 

lethierry’s exaltation. 

The “Devil Boat” prospered. Mess Lethi- 
erry began to look forward to the time when he 
should be called “Monsieur.” At Guernsey, 
people do not become “monsieurs”at one bound. 
Between the plain man and the gentleman there 
is quite a scale to climb. To begin with, we 
have the simple name, plain “Peter,” let us sup- 
pose ; the second step is “Neighbour Peter;” 
the third, “Father Peter;” the fourth, “Sieur 
Peter;” the fifth, “Mess Peter;” and then we 
reach the summit in “Monsieur Peter.” 

This scale, ascending thus from the ground, 
is carried to still greater heights. All the up- 
per classes of England join on and continue it. 
Here are the various steps, becoming more and 
more glorious. Above the Monsieur, or “ Mr.,” 
there is the “Esquire;” above the esquire, the 
knight ; above the knight, then still rising, we 
have the baronet, the Scotch laird, the baron, 
the viscount, the earl (called count in France, 
and jarl in Norway); the marquis, the duke, 
the prince of the blood royal, and the king: so 
by degrees w r e ascend from the people to the 
middle class, from the middle class to the bar- 
onetage, from the baronetage to the peerage, 
from the peerage to royalty. 

Thanks to his successful ingenuity, thanks to 
steam, and his engines, and the “Devil Boat,” 
Mess Lethierry was fast becoming an important 
personage. When building his vessel he had 
been compelled to borrow money. Pie had be- 
come indebted at Breme, he had become indebt- 
ed at St. Malo ; but every year he diminished 
his obligations. 

He had moreover purchased on credit at the 
very entrance to the port of St. Sampson a pret- 
ty stone-built house, entirely new, situate be- 
tween the sea and a pretty garden. On the 


corner of this house was inscribed the name of 
the “Bravees.” Its front formed a part of the 
wall of the port itself, and it was remarkable for 
a double row of windows : on the north, along- 
side a little enclosure filled with flowers, and on 
the south commanding a view of the ocean. It 
had thus two fagades, one open to the tempest 
and the sea, the other looking into a garden 
filled with roses. 

These two frontages seemed made for the two 
inmates of the house — Mess Lethierry and De- 
ruchette. 

The “ Bravees” was popular at St. Sampson, 
for Mess Lethierry had at length become a pop- 
ular man. This popularity was due partly to 
his good nature, his devotedness, and his cour- 
age ; partly to the number of lives he had saved ; 
and a great deal to his success, and to the fact 
that he had awarded to St. Sampson the honour 
of being the port of the departure and arrival 
of the new steam-boat. Having made the dis- 
covery that the “Devil Boat” was decidedly a 
success, St. Pierre, the capital, desired to obtain 
it for that port, but Lethierry held fast to St. 
Sampson. It was his native town. “It was 
there that I was first pitched into the water,” he 
used to say ; hence his great local popularity. 
His position as a small landed proprietor paying 
land-tax, made him, what they call in Guernsey, 
an inhabitant. He was chosen land-tax assess- 
or. The poor sailor had mounted five out of 
six steps of the Guernsey social scale ; he had 
attained the dignity of “Mess ;” he was rapidly 
approaching the Monsieur ; and who could pre 
diet whether he might not even rise higher than 
that ; who could say that they might not one 
day find in the almanack of Guernsey, under 
the heading of “Nobility and Gentry,” the as- 
tonishing and superb inscription, Lethicr- 

ry, Esq. 

But Mess Lethierry had nothing of vanity in 
his nature, or he had no sense of it ; or if he 
had, disdained it : to know that he was useful 
was his greatest pleasure ; to be popular touched 
him less than being necessary ; he had, as we 
have already said, only two objects of delight, 
and consequently only two ambitions: Durande 
and Deruchette. 

However this may have been, he had em 
barked in the lottery of the sea, and had gained 
the chief prize. 

This chief prize was the Durande steaming 
away in all her pride. 


VII. 

THE SAME GODFATHER AND THE SAME PATRON 
SAINT. 

Having created his steam-boat, Lethierry had 
christened it; he had called it Durande — “La 
Durande.” We will speak of her henceforth 
by no other name: we will claim the liberty 
also, in spite of typographical usage, of not un- 
derlining this name Durande; conforming in 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


2G 

this to the notion of Mess Lethierry, in whose 
eyes La Durande was almost a living person. 

Durande and Deruchette are the same name. 
Dtruchette is the diminutive. 

This diminutive is very common in France. 

In the country the names of saints are often 
endowed with all these diminutives as well as 
all their augmentatives. One might suppose 
there were several persons when there is, in fact, 
only one. This system of patrons and patron- 
esses under different names is by no means rare. 
Lise, Lisette, Lisa, Elisa, Isabelle, Lisbeth, 
Betsy, all these are simply Elizabeth. It is 
probable that Mahout, Maclou, Malo, and Ma- 
gloire are the same saint : this, however, we do 
not vouch for. 

Saint Durande is a saint of 1’Angoumois and 
of the Charente ; whether she is an orthodox 
member of the calendar is a question for the 
Bollandists : orthodox or not, she has been made 
the patron saint of numerous chapels. 

It was while Lethierry w'as a young sailor at 
Rochefort that he had made the acquaintance 
of this saint, probably in the person of some 
pretty Charantaise, perhaps in that of the gri- 
sette with the pretty nails. The saint had re- 
mained sufficiently in his memory for him to 
give the name to the two things which he loved 
most — Durande to the steam-boat, Deruchette to 
the girl. 

Of one he was the father, of the other the 
uncle. 

Deruchette was the daughter of a brother who 
had died : she was an orphan child : he had 
adopted her, and had taken the place both of 
father and mother. 

Deruchette was not only his niece, she was 
his godchild ; he had held her in his arms at 
the baptismal font ; it was he who had chosen 
her patron saint, Durande, and her Christian 
name, Deruchette. 

Deruchette, as we have said, was born at St. 
Pierre Port. Her name was inscribed at its 
date on the register of the parish. 

As long as the niece was a child, and the un- 
cle poor, nobody took heed of her appellation 
of Deruchette, but when the little girl became a 
miss, and the sailor a gentleman, Deruchette 
shocked the feelings of Guernsey society; the 
uncouthness of the name astonished every one. 
Folks asked Mess Lethierry “ why Deruchette?” 
be answered, “It is a very good name in its 
way.” Several attempts were made to get him 
to obtain a change in the baptismal name, but 
he would be no party to them. One day a fine 
lady of the upper circle of society in St. Samp- 
son, the wife of a rich retired iron-founder, said 
to Mess Lethierry, “In future I shall call your 
daughter Nancy.” 

“If names of country towns are in fashion,” 
said he, “why not Lons le Saulnier?” The 
fine lady did not yield her point, and on the 
morrow said, “We are determined not to have 
it Deruchette. I have found for your daughter 
a pretty name — Marianne “A very pretty 
name, indeed,” replied Mess Lethierry, “com- 


posed of two words which signify a husband 
and an ass.”* He held fast to Deruchette. 

It would be a mistake to infer from Lethier- 
ry’s pun that he had no wish to see his niece 
married. He desired to marry her, certainly; 
but in his own way : he intended her to have a 
husband after his own heart — one who would 
work hard, and whose wife would have little to 
do. He liked rough hands in a man, and deli- 
cate ones in a woman. To prevent Deruchette 
spoiling her pretty hands he had always brought 
her up like a young lady ; he had provided her 
with a music-master, a piano, a little library, 
and a few needles and threads in a pretty work- 
basket : she was, indeed, more often reading 
than stitching, more often playing than reading; 
this was as Mess Lethierry wished it; to be 
charming was all that he expected of her : lie 
had reared the young girl like a flow er. Who- 
ever has studied the character of sailors well un- 
derstand this — rude and hard in their nature, 
they have an odd partiality for grace and deli- 
cacy. To realize the idea of the uncle, the 
niece ought to have been rich— so, indeed, felt 
Mess Lethierry. His steam-boat voyaged for 
this end. The mission of Durande was to pro- 
• vide a marriage portion for Deruchette. 


VIII. 

BONNIE DUNDEE. 

Deruchette occupied the prettiest room at 
the Bravees ; it had two windows, w as furnished 
with various articles made of fine-grained ma- 
hogany, had a bed with four curtains, green 
and white, and looked out upon the garden, and 
beyond it towards the high hill on whieh stands 
the Chateau du Valle. Gilliatt’s house, the 
Hu de la Hue, was cn the other side of this hill 

Deruchette had her music and piano in this 
chamber ; she accompanied herself on the in- 
strument when singing the air which she pre- 
ferred — the melancholy Scottish air of “Bon- 
n ic Dundee.” The very spirit of night breathes 
in this melody, but her voice w r as full of the 
freshness of dawn. The contrast w r as quaint 
and pleasing; people said, “Miss Deruchette 
at her piano.” 

The passers by the foot of the hill stopped 
sometimes before the wall of the garden of the 
Bravees to listen to that sweet voice and plaint- 
ive song. 

DeTuchette was the very embodiment of joy 
as she went to and fro in the house ; she brough 4 
with her a. perpetual spring. She was beauti- 
ful, but more pretty than beautiful, and still 
more graceful than pretty. She recalled to the 
good old pilots, friends of Mess Lethierry, that 
princess in the song which the soldiers and 
sailors sing, who w r as so beautiful — 

“ Qu’elle passait pour telle dans le regiment.” 

Mess Lethierry used to say, “She has a head 
of hair like a ship’s cable.” 

* A play upon the French words mari and dne. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


27 


From her infancy she had been remarkable 
for beauty. The learned in such matters had 
grave doubts about her nose, but the little one 
having probably determined to be pretty, had 
finally satisfied their requirements. She grew 
to girlhood without any serious loss of beauty ; 
her nose became neither too long nor too short; 
and, when grown up, her critics admitted her 
to be charming. 

She never addressed her uncle otherwise 
than as father. 

Lethierry allowed her to soil her fingers a 
little in gardening, and even in some kind of 
household duties : she watered her beds of pink 
hollyhocks, purple foxgloves, perennial phloxes, 
and scarlet herb bennets. She took good ad- 
vantage of the climate of Guernsey, so favoura- 
ble to flowers. She had, like many other per- 
sons there, aloes in the open ground, and, Avhat 
is more difficult, she succeeded in cultivating the 
Nepaulese cinquefoil. Her little kitchen-gar- 
den was scientifically arranged; she was able 
to produce from it several kinds of rare vegeta- 
bles. She sowed Dutch cauliflower and Brus- 
sels cabbages, which she thinned out in July, 
turnips for August, endive for September, short 
parsnip for the autumn, and rampions for winter. 
Mess Lethierry did not interfere with her in 
this, so long as she did not handle the spade 
and rake too much, or meddle with the coarser 
kinds of garden labour. He had provided her 
with two servants, one named Grace, and the 
other Douce, which are favourite names in 
Guernsey. Grace and Douce did the hard work 
of the house and garden, and they had the right 
to have red hands. 

With regard to Mess Lethierry, his room was 
a little retreat with a view over the port, and 
communicating with the great lower room of 
the ground floor, on which was situated the 
door of the house, near which the various stair- 
cases met. 

His room was furnished with his hammock, 
his chronometer, and his pipe ; there were also 
a table and a chair. The ceiling had been 
Avhite washed, as well as the four walls. A fine 
marine map, bearing the inscription W. Faden , 
5 Charing Cross, Geographer to his Majesty, 
and representing the Channel Islands, was nail- 
ed up at the side of the door, and on the left, 
stretched out and fastened with other nails, ap- 
peared one of those large cotton handkerchiefs, 
on which are printed in colours the signals of 
all countries in the world, having at the four 
corners the standards of France, Russia, Spain, 
and the United States, and in the centre the 
union jack of England. 

Douce and Grace were two faithful creatures 
within certain limits. Douce was good-na- 
tured enough, and Grace was probably good- 
looking. Douce was unmarried, had secretly 
“ a gallant.” In the Channel Islands the word 
is common, as indeed is the fact itself. The 
two girls regarded as servants had something 
of the Creole in their character, a sort of slow- 
ness in their movements, not out of keeping 


with the Norman spirit pervading the relations 
of servant and master in the Channel Islands. 
Grace, coquettish and good-looking, was always 
scanning the future with a nervous anxiety. 
This arose from the fact of her not only having, 
like Douce, “a gallant,” but also, as the scan- 
dal-loving averred, a sailor husband, whose re- 
turn one day was a thing she dreaded. This, 
however, does not concern us. In a household 
less austere and less innocent, Douce would 
have continued to be the servant, but Grace 
would have become the soubrette. The danger- 
ous talents of Grace were lost upon a young mis- 
tress so pure and good as De'ruchette. For the 
rest, the intrigues of Douce and Grace were cau- 
tiously concealed. Mess Lethierry knew noth- 
ing of such matters, and no token of them had 
ever reached Dcruchette. 

The lower room of the ground floor, a hall 
with a large fireplace, and surrounded with 
benches and tables, had served in the last cen- 
tury as a meeting-place for a conventicle of 
French Protestant refugees. The sole orna- 
ment of the bare stone Avail AA'as a sheet of 
parchment, set in a frame of black wood, on 
Avhich Averc represented some of the charitable 
deeds of the great Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux. 
Some poor diocesans of this famous orator, sur- 
named the “ Eagle,” persecuted by him at the 
time of the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, 
and driven to take shelter at Guernsey, had 
hung this picture on the Avail to preserve the 
remembrance of these facts. The spectator 
Avho had the patience to decipher a rude hnnd- 
Avriting in faded ink might have letr-nt the fol- 
lowing facts, Avhich are but little known : “ 29th 
October, 1685, Monsieur the Bishop of Meaux 
appeals to the king to destroy the temples of 
Morcef and Nanteuil.” — “2d April, 1686, Ar- 
rest of Cochard, father and son, for their relig- 
ious opinions, at the request of Monsieur the 
Bishop of Meaux. Released : the Cochards 
having recanted.” — “28th October, 1699, Mon- 
sieur the Bishop of Meaux sent to Mde. Pont- 
chartrain a petition of remonstrance, pointing 
out that it Avill be necessary to place the young 
ladies named Chalandes and De Neuville, Avho 
are of the reformed religion, in the House of 
the ‘NeAv Catholics’ at Paris.” — “7th July, 
1703, the king’s order executed as requested by 
Monsieur the Bishop of Meaux for shutting up 
in an asylum Baudouin and his Avife, tAvo bad 
Catholics of Fublaines.” u 

At the end of the hall, near the door of Mess 
Lethierry’s room, Avas a little corner with a 
Avooden partition, Avhich had been the Hugue- 
nots’ sanctum, and had become, thanks to its 
row of rails and a small hole to pass paper or 
money through, the steam-boat office ; that is 
to say, the office of the Durande, kept by Mess 
Lethierry in person. Upon the old oaken read- 
ing-desk, where once rested the Holy Bible, lay 
a great ledger, with its alternate pages headed 
Dr. and Cr. 


28 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


IX. 

THE MAN WHO DISCOVERED RANTAINE’S CHAR- 
ACTER. 

As long as Mess Letliierry had been able to 
do duty, he had commanded the Durande, and 
had had no other pilot or captain but himself; 
but a time had come, as we have said, when he 
had been compelled to find a successor. He 
had chosen for that purpose Sieur Clubin, of 
Torteval, a taciturn man. Sieur Clubin had a 
character upon the coast for strict probity. He 
became the alter ego , the double of Mess Le- 
thierry. 

Sieur Clubin, although he had rather the look 
of a notary than of a sailor, was a mariner of 
rare skill. He had all the talents which are re- 
quired to meet dangers of every kind. He was 
a skilful stowe r, a safe man aloft, an able and 
careful boatswain, a powerful steersman, an ex- 
perienced pilot, and a bold captain. lie was 
prudent, and he carried his prudence sometimes 
to the point of daring, which is a great quality 
at sea. His natural apprehensiveness of danger 
was tempered by a strong instinct of what was 
possible in an emergency. He was one of 
those mariners who w T ill face risks to a point 
perfectly well known to themselves, who gener- 
ally manage to come successfully out of every 
peril. Every certainty which a man can com- 
mand, dealing with so fickle an element as the 
sea, he possessed. Sieur Clubin, moreover, was 
a renowned swimmer ; he was one of that race 
of men broken in to the buffeting of the waves, 
who can remain as long as they please in the 
water — who can start from the Havre-des-Nas 
at Jersey, double the Colettes, swim round the 
Hermitage and Castle Elizabeth, and return in 
two hours to the point from which they started. 
He came from Torteval, where he had the rep- 
utation of often having swam across the pas- 
sage so much dreaded, from the Hanway Rocks 
to the point of rieinmont. 

One circumstance which had recommended 
Sieur Clubin to Mess Letliierry more than any 
other was his having judged correctly the char- 
acter of Rantaine. He had pointed out to Le- 
thierry the dishonesty of the man, and had said 
“ Rantaine will rob you.” His prediction was 
verified. More than once — in matters, it is 
true, not very important — Mess Letliierry had 
put his ever scrupulous honesty to the proof ; 
and he freely communicated with him on the 
subject of his affairs. Mess Lethierry used to 
say, “A good conscience expects to be treated 
with perfect confidence.” 


X. 

LONG YARNS. 

Mess Lethierry, for the sake of his own 
ease, always wore his sea-faring clothes, and 
preferred his tarpauling overcoat to his pilot 
jacket. .De'ruchettc felt vexed occasionally 


about this peculiarity. Nothing is prettier thaii 
a pouting beauty. She laughed and scolded. 
“My dear father,” she would say, “what a 
smell of pitch !” and she would give him a gen- 
tle tap upon his broad shoulders. 

This good old seaman had gathered from his 
voyages many wonderful stories. He had seen 
at Madagascar birds’ feathers, three of which 
sufficed to make a roof of a house. He had 
seen in India field sorrel, the stalks of which 
were nine inches high. In New Holland he 
had seen troops of turkeys and geese led about 
and guarded by a bird, like a flock by a shep- 
herd’s dog : this bird was called the Agami. 
He had visited elephants’ cemeteries. In Afri- 
ca, he had encountered gorillas, a terrible spe- 
cies of man-monkey. He knew the ways of all 
the ape tripe, from the wild dog-faced monkey, 
which he called the Macaco-bravo, to the howl- 
ing monkey or Macaco-barbado. In Chili, he 
had seen a pouched monkey move the compas- 
sion of the huntsman by showing its little one. 
He had seen in California a hollow trunk of a 
tree fall to the ground, so vast that a man on 
horseback could ride one hundred paces inside. 
In Morocco, he had seen the MozabiteS and the 
Biskris fighting with matraks and bars of iron 
— the Biskris, because they had been called 
kelbs, which means dogs; and the Mozabites, 
because they had been treated as klatnsi , which 
means people of the fifth sect. He had seen in 
China the pirate Chanh-thong-quan-Iarli-Quoi 
cut to pieces for having assassinated the Ap of 
a village. At Thu-dan-mot, he had seen a lion 
carry otf an old woman in the open market- 
place. He was present at the arrival of the 
Great Serpent brought from Canton to Saigon 
to celebrate in the pagoda of Cho-len the fete 
of Quan-nam, the goddess of navigators. He 
had beheld the great Quan-Sfi among the Moi. 
At Rio de Janeiro, he had seen the Brazilian 
ladies in the evening put little balls of gauze 
into their hair, each containing a beautiful kind 
of firefly; the whole forming a head-dress of 
little twinkling lights. He had combated in 
Paraguay with swarms of enormous ants and 
spiders, big and downy as an infant’s head, and 
compassing with their long legs a third of a 
yard, and attacking men by pricking them with 
their bristles, which enter the skin as sharp as 
arrows, and raise painful blisters. On the riv- 
er Arinos, a tributary of the Tocantins, in the 
virgin forests to the north of Diamantina, * he 
had determined the existence of the famous bat- 
shaped people, the Murcilagos, or men who are 
born with white hair and red eyes, who lived in 
the shady solitudes of the woods, sleep by day, 
awake by night, and fish and hunt in the dark, 
seeing better then than by the light of the moon. 
He told how, near Beyrout, once in an encamp- 
ment of an expedition of which he formed part, 
a rain gauge belonging to one of the party hap- 
pened to be stolen from a tent. A wizard, 
wearing two or three strips of leather only, and 

* The reader need hardly be informed that these are 
imaginary places. — Tranb. 


29 


THE TOILERS 

looking like a man having nothing on but his 
braces, thereupon rang a bell at the end of a 
horn so violently, that a hyena finally answered 
the summons by bringing back the missing in- 
strument. The hyena was, in fact, the thief. 
These veritable histories bore a strong resem- 
blance to fictions ; but they amused Deruchette. 

The poup€e or “doll” of the Durande, as the 
people of the Channel Islands call the figure- 
head of a ship, was the connecting link between 
the vessel and Lethierry’s niece. 

The poupee of the Durande was particularly 
dear to Mess Lethierry. He had instructed the 
carver to make it resemble Deruchette. It 
looked like a rude attempt to cut out a face 
with a hatchet. It was like a clumsy log try- 
ing hard to look like a girl. 

This unshapely block produced a great effect 
upon Mess Lethierry’s imagination. He look-, 
ed upon it with an almost superstitious admira- 
tion. His faith in it was complete. He was 
able to trace in it an excellent resemblance to 
Deruchette. Thus the dogma resembles the 
truth, and the idol the deity. 

Mess Lethierry had two grand fete-days in 
every week ; one was Tuesday, the other Fri- 
day. His first delight consisted in seeing the 
Durande weigh anchor; his second in seeing 
her enter the port again. He leaned upon his 
elbows at the window contemplating his work, 
and was happy. 

On Fridays, the presence of Mess Lethierry 
at his window was a signal. When people 
passing the Bravees saw him lighting his pipe, 
they said, “Ay ! the steam-boat is in sight.” 
One kind of smoke was the herald of the other. 

The Durande, when she entered the port, 
made her cable fast to a huge iron ling under 
Mess Lethierry’s window, and fixed in the base- 
ment of the house. On those nights, Lethierry 
slept soundly in his hammock, with a soothing 
consciousness of the presence of Deruchette 
asleep in her room near him, and of the Du- 
rande moored opposite. 

The moorings of the Durande were close to 
the bell of the port. A little strip of quay pass- 
ed thence before the door of the Bravees. 

The quay, the Bravees, and its house, the 
garden, the alleys bordered with edges, and the 
greater part even of the surrounding houses, no 
longer exist. The demand for Guernsey gran- 
ite has invaded these too. The whole of this 
part of the town is now occupied by stone-cut- 
ters’ yards. 


XI. 

MATRIMONIAL PROSPECTS. 

Deruchette was approaching womanhood, 
and was still unmarried. 

Mess Lethierry, in bringing her up to have 
white hands, had also rendered her somewhat 
fastidious. A training of that kind has its dis- 
advantages; but Lethierry was himself still more 
fastidious. He would have liked to have pro- 


OF THE SEA. 

vided at the same time for both his idols ; to 
have so found in the guide and companion of 
the one a commander for the other. What is a 
husband? The pilot on the voyage of matri- 
mony. Why not the same conductor for the 
vessel and for the girl ? The affairs of a house- 
hold have their tides, their ebbs and flows, and 
he who knows how to steer a bark ought to 
know how to guide a woman’s destiny, subject 
as both are to the influences of the moon and 
the wind. Sieur Clubin, being only fifteen years 
younger than Lethierry, would necessarily be 
only a provisional master for the Durande. It 
would be necessary to find a young captain, a 
permanent master, a true successor of the found- 
er, inventor, and creator of the first Channel 
steam-boat. A captain for the Durande who 
should come up to his ideal would have been 
almost a son-in-law in Lethierry’s eyes. Why 
not make him a son-in-law in a double sense ? 
The idea pleased him. The husband in j>osse 
of Deruchette haunted his dreams. His ideal 
was a powerful seaman, tanned and browned by 
weather, a sea Athlete. This, however, was not 
exactly the ideal of De'ruchette. Her dreams, 
if dreams they could even be called, were of a 
more ethereal character. 

The uncle and the niece were at all events 
agreed in not being in haste to seek a solution 
of these problems. When Deruchette began to 
be regarded as a probable heiress, a crowd of 
suitors had presented themselves. Attentions 
under these circumstances arc not generally 
worth much. Mess Lethierry felt this. He 
would grumble out the old French proverb, U A 
maiden of gold , a suitor of brass." He politely 
showed the fortune-seekers to the door. He 
was content to wait, and so was Deruchette. 

It was, perhaps, a singular fact that lie had 
little penchant for the local aristocracy. In that 
respect Mess Lethierry showed himself not en- 
tirely English. It will hardly be believed that 
he even refused for Deruchette a Ganduel of 
Jersey, and a Bugnet-Nicolin of Sark. People 
were bold enough to affirm, although we doubt if 
this were possible, that he had even declined the 
proposals of a member of the family of Edou, 
which is evidently descended from ‘ ‘ Edou-ard” 
(Anglice Edward) the Confessor. 


XII. 

AN ANOMALY IN THE CHARACTER OI 
LETHIERRY. 

Mess Lethierry had a failing, and a serious 
one He detested a priest; though not as an 
individual, but as an institution. Reading one 
day — for he used to read — in a work of Voltaire 
— for he would even read Voltaire — the remark 
that priests “have something cat-like in their 
nature,” he laid down the book, and was heard 
to mutter, ‘ ‘ Then I suppose I have something 
dog-like in mine.” 

It must be recollected that the priests — Lu- 
theran and Calvinist, as well as Catholic — had 


30 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


vigorously combated the new ‘ * Devil Boat, and 
had persecuted its inventor. To be a sort of 
revolutionist in the art of navigation, to intro- 
duce a spirit of progress in the Norman archi- 
pelago, to disturb the peace of the poor little isl- 
and of Guernsey with a new invention, was, in 
their eyes, as we have not concealed from the 
reader, an abominable and most condemnable 
rashness. Nor had they omitted to condemn it 
pretty loudly. It must not be forgotten that we 
are now speaking of the Guernsey clergy of a 
bygone generation, very different from that of 
the present time, who in almost all the local 
places of worship display a laudable sympathy 
with progress. They had embarrassed Lethier- 
rv in a hundred ways ; every sort of resisting 
force which can be found in sermons and dis- 
courses had been employed against him. De- 
tested by the churchmen, he naturally came to 
detest them in his turn. Their hatred was the 
extenuating circumstance to be taken into ac- 
count in judging of his. 

But it must-be confessed that his dislike for 
priests was, in some degree, in his very nature. 
It was hardly necessary for them to hate him in 
order to inspire him with aversion. As he said, 
he moved among them like the dog among cats. 
He had an antipathy to them, not only in idea, 
but in what is more difficult to analyse, his in- 
stincts. He felt their secret claws, and showed 
his teeth ; sometimes, it must be confessed, a 
little at random and out of season. It is a mis- 
take to make no distinctions: a dislike in the 
mass is a prejudice. The good Savoyard cur 
would have found no favour in his eyes. It is 
not certain that a worthy priest was even a pos- 
sible thing in Lethierry’s mind. His philoso- 
phy was carried so far that his good sense some- 
times abandoned him. There is such a thing 
as the intolerance of tolerants, as well as the 
violence of moderates. But Lethierry was at 
bottom too good-natured to be a thorough hater. 
He did not attack so much as avoid. He kept 
the church people at a distance. He suffered 
evil at their hands, but he confined himself to 
not wishing them any good. The shade of dif- 
ference, in fact, between his aversion and theirs, 
lay in the fact that they bore animosity, while 
he had only a strong antipathy. Small as is 
the island of Guernsey, it has, unfortunately, 
plenty of room for differences of religion ; there, 
to take the broad distinction, is the Catholic 
faith and the Protestant faith: every form of 
worship has its temple or chapel. In Germany, 
at Heidelberg, for example, people are not so 
particular ; they divide a church in two, one 
half for Saint Peter, the other half for Calvin, 
and between the two is a partition to prevent re- 
ligious variances terminating in fisticuffs. The 
shares are equal ; the Catholics have three al- 
tars, the Huguenots three altars. As the serv- 
ices are at the same hours, one bell summons 
both denominations to prayers ; it rings, in fact, 
both for God and for Satan, according as each 
pleases to regard it. Nothing can be more 
simple. 


The phlegmatic character of the Germans fa 
vours, I suppose, this peculiar arrangement, but 
in Guernsey every religion has its own domicile* 
there is the orthodox parish and the heretic par- 
ish ; the individual may choose. “ Neither one 
nor the other’ was the choice of Mess Lethierry. 

This sailor, workman, philosopher, and par- 
venu trader, though a simple man in appear- 
ance, was by no means simple at bottom. He 
had his opinions and his prejudices. On the 
subject of the priests he was immovable; he 
would have entered the lists with Montlosier. 

Occasionally he indulged in rather disrespect- 
ful jokes upon this subject. He had certain 
odd expressions thereupon peculiar to himself, 
but significant enough. Going to confession he 
called “combing one’s conscience.” The little 
learning that he had — a certain amount of 
reading picked up here and there between the 
squalls at sea^ — did not prevent his making 
blunders in spelling. He made also mistakes 
in pronunciation, some of which, however, gave 
a double sense to his words, which might have 
been suspected of a sly intention. 

Though he was a strong anti-papist, that cir- 
cumstance was far from conciliating the Angli- 
cans. He was no more liked by the Protestant 
rectors than by the Catholic cures. The enun- 
ciation of the gravest dogmas did not prevent 
his anti-theological temper bursting forth. Ac- 
cident, for example, having once brought him 
to hear a sermon on eternal punishment by the 
Reverend Jaquemin Herode — a magnificent dis- 
course, filled from one end to the other with sa- 
cred texts, proving the everlasting pains, the tor 
tures, the torments, the perditions, the inexora- 
ble chastisements, the burnings without end, 
the inextinguishable maledictions, the wrath 
of the Almighty, the celestial fury, the divine 
vengeance, and other incontestable realities — he 
was heard to say as he was going out in the 
midst of the faithful flock, “You see, I have an 
odd notion of my own on this matter, I imagine 
God as a merciful being.” 

This leaven of atheism was doubtless due to 
his sojourn in France. 

Although a Guernsey man of pure extraction, 
he was called in the island “the Frenchman;" 
but chiefly on account of his “improper” man- 
ner of speaking. He did not indeed conceal the 
truth from himself. He was impregnated with 
ideas subversive of established institutions. His 
obstinacy in constructing the “Devil Boat” had 
proved that. He used to say, “I have a little 
of ’89 in my head.” A doubtful sort of avow- 
al. These were not his only indiscretions. In 
France “to preserve appearances,” in England 
“to be respectable,” is the chief condition of a 
quiet life. To be respectable implies a multi, 
tude of little observances, from the strict keep- 
ing of Sunday down to the careful tying of a 
cravat. “To act so that nobody may point at 
you”— this is the terrible social law. To be 
pointed at with the finger is almost the same 
thing as an anathematization. , Little towns, al- 
ways hot-beds of gossip; are remarkable for that 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


31 


isolating malignancy, which is like the tremen- 
dous malediction of the Church seen through the 
wrong end of the telescope. The bravest are 
afraid of this ordeal. They are ready to con- 
front the storm, the fire of cannon, but they 
shrink at the glance of “ Mrs. Grundy.” Mess 
Lethierry was more obstinate than logical ; but 
under pressure even his obstinacy would bend. 
He put — to use another of his phrases, eminent- 
ly suggestive of latent compromises not always 
pleasant to avow — “ a little water in his wine.” 
He kept aloof from the clergy, but he did not 
absolutely close his door against them. On 
official occasions, and at the customary epochs 
of pastoral visits, he received with sufficiently 
good grace both the Lutheran rector and the 
Papist chaplain. He had even, though at dis- 
tant intervals, accompanied Deruchette to the 
Anglican parish church, to which Deruchette 
herself, as we have said, only went on the four 
great festivals of the year. 

On the whole, these little concessions, whicli 
always cost him a pang, irritated him ; and, far 
from inclining him towards the church people, 
only increased his inward disinclination for 
them. He compensated himself by more rail- 
lery. His nature, in general so devoid of bitter- 
ness, had no uncharitable side except this. To 
alter him, however, was impossible. 

In fact, this was in his very temperament, and 
was beyond his own power to control. 

Every sort of priest or clergyman was dis- 
tasteful to him. He had a little of the old rev- 
olutionary want of reverence. He did not dis- 
tinguish between one form of worship and an- 
other. He did not do justice to that great step 
in the progress of ideas, the denial of the real 
presence. His shortsightedness in these mat- 
ters even prevented his perceiving any essential 
difference between a minister and an abbe. A 
reverend doctor and a reverend father were 
pretty nearly the same to him. He used to 
say, “ Wesley is not a bit more to my taste than 
Loyola.” When he saw a reverend pastor walk- 
ing with his wife, he would turn to look at them, 
and mutter “a married priest,” in a tone which 
brought out all the absurdity which those words 
had in the ears of Frenchmen at that time. He 
used to relate how on his last voyage to Eng- 
land he had seen the “ Bishopes.s” of London. 
His dislike for marriages of that sort amounted 
almost to disgust. “Gown and gown do not 
mate well/” lie would say. The sacerdotal 
function was to him in the nature of a distinct 
sex. It would have been natural to him to 
have ysaid, “Neither a man nor a woman, only 
a priest and he had the bad taste to apply to 
the Anglican and the Roman Catholic clergy 
the same disdainful epithets. He confounded 
the two cassocks in the same phraseology. He 
did not take the trouble to vary in favour of 
Catholics or Lutherans, or whatever they might 
be, the figures of speech common among mili- 
tary men of that period. He would sav to De- 
ruchette, “Marry whom you please, provided 
you do not marry a parson.” 


XIII. 

THOUGHTLESSNESS ADDS A GRACE TO BEAUTY. 

A word once said, Mess Lethierry remem- 
bered it ; a word once said, De'ruchette soon 
forgot it. Here was another difference between 
the uncle and the niece. 

Brought up in the peculiar way already de- 
scribed, Deruchette was little accustomed to re- 
sponsibility. There is a latent danger in an 
education not sufficiently serious, which cannot 
be too much insisted on. It is perhaps unwise 
to endeavour to make a child happy too soon. 

So long as she was happy, Deruchette thought 
all was well. She knew, too, that it was al- 
ways a pleasure to her uncle to see her pleased. 
The religious sentiment in her nature was sat- 
isfied with going to the parish church four times 
in the year. We have seen her in her Christ 
mas-day toilette. Of life she was entirely ig- 
norant. She had a disposition which one day 
might lead her to love passionately. Mean- 
while she was contented. 

She sang by fits and starts, chatted by fits and 
starts, enjoyed the hour as it passed, fulfilled 
some little duty, and was gone again, and was 
delightful in all. Add to all this the English 
sort of liberty which she enjoyed. In England 
the rosy infants go alone ; girls are their own 
mistresses, and adolescence is almost wholly un- 
restrained. Such are the differences of man- 
ners. Later, how many of these free maidens 
become female slaves? We used the word in 
its least odious sense ; we mean that they are 
free in the development of their nature, bn', 
slaves to duty. 

Deruchette awoke every morning with little 
thought of her actions of the day before. It 
would have troubled her a good deal to have had 
to give an account of how she had spent her 
time the previous week. All this, however, did 
not prevent her having certain hours of strange 
disquietude : times when some dark cloud seem- 
ed to pass over the brightness of her joy. Those 
azure depths are subject to such shadows ! But 
clouds like these soon passed away. She quick- 
ly shook off such moods with a cheerful laugh, 
knowing neither why she had been sad, nor why 
she had regained her serenity. She w r as ahvays 
at play. As a child, she would take delight in 
teasing the passers-by. She played practical 
jokes upon the boys. If the fiend himself had 
passed that way, she would hardly have spared 
him some ingenious trick. She was pretty and 
innocent; and she could abuse the immunity 
accorded to such qualities. She was ready with 
a smile as a cat with a stroke of her claws. So 
much the worse for the victim of her scratches. 
She thought no more of them. Yesterday had 
no existence for her. She lived in the fullness 
of to-day. Such it is to have too much happi- 
ness fall to one’s lot! With Deruchette im- 
pressions vanished like the melted snow. 


32 


THE TOILERS OE THE SEA. 


BOOK IV. 

THE BAGPIPE. 


I. 

STREAKS OF FIRE IN THE HORIZON. 

Gilliatt had never spoken to Deruchette; 
he knew her from having seen her at a distance, 
as men know the morning star. 

At the period when De'ruchette had met Gil- 
liatt on the road leading from St. Peter’s Port 
to Valle, and had surprised him by tracing his 
name in the snow, she was just sixteen years of 
age. Only the evening before Mess Letliierry 
had said to her, ‘ ‘ Come, no more childish tricks ; 
you are a great girl.” 

That word, “Gilliatt,” written by the young 
maiden, had sunk into an unfathomed depth. 

What were women to Gilliatt ? He could not 
have answered that question himself. When 
he met one he generally inspired her with some- 
thing of the timidity which he felt himself; he 
never spoke to a woman except from urgent ne- 
cessity. He had never played the part of a “ gal- 
lant” to any one of the country girls. When 
he found himself alone on t’ road, and per- 
ceived a woman coming towards him, he would 
climb over a fence or bury himself in some copse ; 
he even avoided old women. Once in his life 
he had seen a Parisian lady. A Parisienne on 
the wing was a strange event in Guernsey at 
that distant epoch ; and Gill’ ft had heard this 
gentle lady relate her little' oubles in these 
words : “I am very much annoyed ; I have got 
some spots of rain upon my bonnet. Pale buff 
is a shocking colour for rain.” Having found, 
some time afterwards, between the leaves of a 
book, an old engraving representing “a lady of 
the Chaussee d’Antin” in full dress, he had stuck 
it against the wall at home as a souvenir of this 
remarkable apparition. 

On that Christmas morning when he had met 
Deruchette, and when she had written his name 
and disappeared laughing, he returned home 
scarcely conscious of why he had gone out. 
That night he slept little : he was dreaming of a 
thousand things — that it would be well to culti- 
vate black radishes in the garden ; that he had 
not seen the boat from Sark pass by ; had any- 
thing happened to it? Then he remembered 
that he had seen the white stonecrop in flower, 
a rare thing at that season. He had never 
known exactly who was the woman who had 
reared him, and he made up his mind that she 
must have been his mother, and thought of her 
with redoubled tenderness. He called to mind 
the lady’s clothing in the old leathern trunk. 
Ho thought that the Reverend Jaquemin Herode 
would probably one day or other be appointed 
Dean of St. Peter’s Port and Surrogate of the 
Bishop, and that the rectory of St. Sampson 
would become vacant. Next he remembered 


that the morrow of Christmas would be the 
twenty-seventh day of the moon, and that con- 
sequently high-water would be at twenty-or.e 
minutes past three, the half-ebb at a quarter past 
seven, low-water at thirty-three minutes past 
nine, and half-flood at thirty-nine minutes past 
twelve. He recalled, in their most trifling de- 
tails, the costume of the Highlander who had 
sold him the bagpipe : his bonnet with a thistle 
ornament, his claymore, his close-fitting short 
jacket, his kilt and philabeg ornamented, with 
a pocket and his snuff-horn, his pin set with a 
Scottish stone, his two girdles, his sash and 
belts, his sword, cutlass, dirk, and skene-dhu ; 
his black-sheathed knife with its black handle 
ornamented with two cairngorms, and the bare 
knees of the soldier; his socks, gaiters, and 
buckled shoes. This highly-equipped figure be- 
came a spectre in his imagination, which pur- 
sued him with a sense of feverishness as he sunk 
into oblivion. When he awoke it was full day- 
light, and his first thought was of Deruchette. 

The next night he slept more soundly, but 
he was dreaming again of the Scottish soldier. 
In the midst of his sleep he remembered that 
the after-Christmas sittings of the Chief Law 
Court would commence on the 21st of January. 
He dreamed also about the Reverend Jaquemin 
Herode. He thought of Deruchette, and seem- 
ed to be in violent anger with her ; he wished 
he had been a child again to throw stones at her 
windows; then he thought that if he were a 
child again he should have his mother by his 
side, and he began to sob. 

Gilliatt had a project at this time of going to 
pass three months at Chousey, or at the Miri- 
quiers ; but he did not go. 

He walked no more along the road to St. Pe- 
ter’s Port. 

He had an odd fancy that his name of “ Gil- 
liatt” had remained there traced upon the ground, 
and that the passers-by had stopped there to 
read it. 


II. 

THE UNKNOWN WORLD UNFOLDS ITSELF BY 
DEGREES. 

On the other hand, Gilliatt had the satisfac- 
tion of seeing the Bravees every day. By some 
accident he was always passing that way. H;a 
business seemed always to lead him by the patlA 
which passed under the wall of Deruchettc’s 
garden. 

One morning, as he was walking along this 
i ath, he heard a market-woman who was return- 
;ing from the Braves say to another, “ M^S" 

I Letliierry is fond of sea-kale.” 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


Ho dug in his garden of the Bd de la Rue a , 
trench for sea-kale. The sea-kale is a vegetable 
which has a flavour like asparagus. 

The wall of the garden of the Bravees was 
very low ; it would have been easy to scale it. 
The idea of scaling it would have appeared to 
him terrible. But there was nothing to hinder 
his hearing, as any one else might, the voices 
of persons talking as he passed, in the rooms or 
in the garden. He did not listen, but he heard 
them. Once he could distinguish the voices of 
the two servants, Grace and Douce, disputing. 
It was a sound which belonged to the house, and 
their quarrel remained in his ears like the re- 
membrance of music. 

On another occasion, he distinguished a voice 
which was different, and which seemed to him 
to be the voice of Deruchette. He quickened 
his pace, and was soon out of hearing. 

The words uttered by that voice, however, 
remained fixed in his memory. He repeated 
them at every instant. They were, “Will you 
please give me the little broom?” 

By degrees he became bolder. He had the 
daring to stay awhile. One day it happened 
that Deruchette was singing at her piano, alto- 
gether invisible from without, although her win- 
dow was open. The air was that of “Bonny 
Dundee.” He grew pale, but he screwed his 
courage to the point of listening. 

Springtide came. One day Gilliatt enjoyed 
a beatific vision. The heavens were opened, 
and there before his eyes appeared Deruchette, 
watering lettuces in her little garden. 

Soon afterwards he took to doing more than 
merely listening there. He watched her habits, 
observed her hours, and waited to catch a glimpse 
of her. 

In all this he was very careful not to be seen. 

The year advanced ; the time came when the 
trellises were heavy with roses, and haunted by 
the butterflies. By little and little, he had 
come to conceal himself for hours behind the 
wall, motionless and silent, seen by no one, and 
holding his breath as De'ruchette passed in and 
out of her garden. Men grow accustomed to 
poison by degrees. 

From his hiding-place he could often hear 
the sound of Deruchette conversing with Mess 
Lethierry under a thick arch of leaves, in a 
spot where there was a garden-seat. The words 
came distinctly to his ears. 

What a change had come over him ! He 
had even descended to watch and listen. Alas ! 
there is something of the character of a spy in 
every human heart. 

There was another garden -seat, visible to 
him, and nearer. Deruchette would sit there 
sometimes. 

From the flowers that he had observed her 
gathering he had guessed her taste in the mat- 
ter of perfumes. The scent of the bindweed was 
her favourite ; then the pink ; then the honey- 
suckle ; then the jasmine. The rose stood only 
fifth in the scale. She looked at the lilies, but 
did not smell them. 


S3 

Gilliatt figured her in his imagination from 
this choice of odours. With each perfume he 
associated some perfection. 

The very idea of speaking to Deruchette 
would have made his hair stand on end. A 
poor old rag-picker, whose wandering brought 
her from time to time into the little road lead- 
ing under the enclosure of the BravCes, had oc- 
casionally remarked Gilliatt’s assiduity beside 
the wall, and his devotion for this retired spot. 
Did she connect the presence of a man before 
this wall with the possibility of a woman be 
hind it? Did she perceive that vague, invisible 
thread? Was she, in her decrepit mendicancy, 
still youthful enough to remember something of 
the old happier days? And could she, in this 
dark night and winter of her wretched life, still 
recognize the dawn? We know not; but it 
appears that, on one occasion, passing near GiU 
liatt at his post, she brought to bear upon him 
something as like a smile as she was still ca- 
pable of, and muttered between her teeth, “It 
warms one.” 

Gilliatt heard the words, and was struck by 
them. “It warms one,” he muttered, with an 
inward note of interrogation. “ It warms one.” 
What did the old woman mean ? 

He repeated the phrase mechanically all day, 
but he could not guess its meaning. 



III. 

THE AIR “BONNY DUNDEE” FINDS AN ECHO 
ON THE HILL. 

It was in a, ot behind the enclosure of the 
garden of the Bravees, at an angle of the wall, 
half concealed with holly and ivy, and covered 
with nettles, wild bush-mallow, and large white 
mullen growing between the blocks of stone, 
that he passed the greater part of that summer. 
He watched there, lost in deep thought. The 
lizards grew accustomed to his presence, and 
basked in the sun among the same stones. The 
summer was bright and full of dreamy indo- 
lence : overhead the light clouds came and went. 
Gilliatt sat upon the grass. The air was full 
of the songs of birds. He held his two hands 
up to his forehead, sometimes trying to recollect 
himself: “Why should she write my name in 
the snow ? From a distance the sea breeze 
came up in gentle breaths, at intervals the horn 
of the quarrymen sounded abruptly, warning 
passers-by to take shelter, as they shattered 
some mass with gunpowder. The Port of St. 
Sampson was not visible from this place, but he 
could see the tips of masts above the trees. The 
sea-gulls flew wide and afar. Gilliatt had heard 
his mother say that women could love>„men; 
that such things happened sometimes. He re- 
membered it; and said within himself, “Who 
knows, may not Deruchette love me?” Then 
a feeling of sadness would come upon him ; he 
would say, “She, too, thinks of me in her turn. 
It is well.” He remembered that Deruchette 


C 


34 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


was rich, and that he was poor: and then the 
new boat appeared to him an execrable inven- 
tion. He could never remember what day of 
the month it was. He would stare listlessly at 
the great black drones, with their yellow bodies 
and their short wings, as they entered with a 
buzzing noise into the holes in the wall. 

One evening Deruchette went in-doors to 
retire to bed. She approached her window to 
close it. The night was dark. Suddenly some- 
thing caught her ear, and she listened. Some- 
where in the darkness there was a sound of 
music. It was some one, perhaps, on the hill- 
side, or at the foot of the towers of Vale Castle, 
or, perhaps, further still, playing an air upon 
some instrument. Deruchette recognised her 
favourite melody, “Bonny Dundee,” played 
upon the bagpipe. She thought little of it. 

From that night the music might be heard 
again from time to time at the same hours, 
particularly when the nights were very dark. 

Deruchette was not nfuch pleased with all 
this. 


IY. 

u A serenade by night may pleaso a lady fair, 

But of uncle and of guardian let the Troubadour beware.” 

Unpublished Comedy. 

Four years passed away. 

Deruchette was approaching her twenty - 
first year, and was still unmarried. Some 
writer has said that a fixed idea is a sort of 
gimlet; every year gives it another turn. To 
pull it out the first year is like plucking out 
the hair by the roots; in the second year, like 
tearing the skin ; in the third, like breaking the 
bones ; and in the fourth, like removing the A ery 
brain itself. 

Gilliatt had arri\'ed at this fourth stage. 

He had never yet spoken a word to Deru- 
chette. He lived and dreamed near that de- 
lightful vision. This was all. 

It happened one day that, finding himself 
'by chance at St. Sampson, he had seen Deru- 
chette talking Avith Mess Lethierry at the door 
of the Bravees, Avhich opens upon the roadway 
of the port. Gilliatt ventured to approach very 
near. He fancied that at the very moment of 
his passing she had smiled. There Avas noth- 
ing impossible in that. 

De'ruchette still heard, from time to time, 
the sound of the bagpipe. 

Mess Lethierry had also heard this bagpipe. 
By degrees he had come to remark this perse- 
vering musician under Deruchette’s windoAv. 
A tender strain, too; all the more suspicious. 
A nocturnal gallant was a thing not to his 
taste. His wish Avas to marry Deruchette in 
his own time, Avhen she Avas Avilling and he Avas 
willing, purely and simply, without any ro- 
mance, or music, or anything of that sort. Ir- 
ritated at it, he had at last kept a Avatch, and 
he fancied that he had detected Gilliatt. He 
passed his fingers through his beard — a sign of 
anger — and grumbled out. “What has that fel- 


low got to pipe about ? He is in loA r e Avith De« 
ruchette, that is clear. You waste your time, 
young man. Any one who Avants Deruchette 
must come to me, and not loiter about playing 
the flute.” 

An event of importance, long foreseen, oc- 
curred soon afterAvards. It Avas announced 
that the Reverend Jaquemin Herode was ap- 
pointed Surrogate of the Bishop of Winches- 
ter, Dean of the island, and Rector of St. Pe- 
ter’s Port, and that he Avould leave St. Samp- 
son for St. Peter’s immediately after his suc- 
cessor should be installed. 

It could not be long to the arrh'al of the neAV 
rector. He was a gentleman cf Norman ex- 
traction, one Monsieur Joe Ebenezer Caudray 
— in English, Cawdry. 

Some facts Avere known about the neAV rec- 
tor, Avhich the benevolent and malevolent inter- 
preted in a contrary sense. He Avas knoAvn to 
be young and poor, but his youth was te mpered 
Avith much learning, and his poverty by good 
expectations. In the dialect specially invented 
for the subject of riches and inheritances, death 
goes by the name of “ expectations.” He Avas 
the nepheAv and heir of the aged and opulent 
Dean of St. Asaph. At the death of this old 
gentleman he Avould be a rich man. M. Ehen- 
ezer Caudray had distinguished relations. He 
Avas almost entitled to the quality of “Honour- 
able.” As regarded his doctrine, people judged 
differently. He Avas an Anglican, but, accord- 
ing to the expression of Bishop Tillotson, a 
“ libertine” — that is, one Avho was v^ery seA-ere. 
He repudiated all pharisaism. He was a friend 
rather of the Presbytery than the Episcopacy. 
He dreamed of the Primitive Church of the 
days Avlien even Adam had the right to choose 
his Eve, and Avhen Frumartinns, Bishop of Hier- 
apolis, carried off a young maiden to make her 
his wife, and said to her parents, “Her will is 
such, and such is mine. You are no longer her 
mother, and you afe no longer her father. I 
am the Bishop of Hierapolis, and this is my 
Avife. Her father is in Heaven.” If the com- 
mon belief could be trusted, M. Ebenezer Cau- 
dvay subordinated the text, “Honour thy father 
and thy mother,” to that other text, in his eyes 
of higher significance, “The Avoman is the flesh 
of the man. She shall leave her father and 
mother to folloAv her husband.” This tenden- 
cy, hoAvever, to circumscribe the parental au- 
thority and to faA r our religiously all modes of 
forming the conjugal tie, is peculiar to all Prot- 
estantism, particularly in England, and singu- 
larly so in America. 


Y. 

A DE8ERVED SUCCESS HAS ALWAYS ITS 
DETRACTORS. 

At this period the affairs of Mess Lethierrv 
were in this position : The Durande had weil 
fulfilled all his expectations. He had paid his 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


35 


debts, repaired his misfortunes, discharged his 
obligations at Breme, met his acceptances at 
Saint Malo. He had paid off the mortgage 
upon his house at the Bravees, and had bought 
up all the little local rent-charges upon the 
property. He was also the proprietor of a 
great productive capital. This was the Du- 
rande herself. The net revenue from the boat 
was about a thousand pounds sterling per an- 
num, and the traffic was constantly increasing. 
Strictly speaking, the Durande constituted his 
entire fortune. She was also the fortune of 
the island. The carriage of cattle being one 
of the most profitable portions of her trade, he 
had been obliged, in order to facilitate the 
stowage, and the embarking and disembarking 
of animals, to do away with the luggage-boxes 
and the two boats. It was, perhaps, impru- 
dent. The Durande had but one boat — name- 
ly, her long-boat ; but this was an excellent one. 

Ten years had elapsed since Rantaine’s rob- 
bery. 

This prosperity of the Durande had its weak 
point. It inspired no confidence. People re- 
garded it as a risk. Lethierry’s good fortune 
was looked upon as exceptional. He was con- 
sidered to have gained by a lucky rashness. 
Some one in the Isle of Wight who had imi- 
tated him had not succeeded. The enterprise 
had ruined the shareholders. The engines, in 
fact, were badly constructed. But people shook 
their heads. Innovations have always to con- 
tend with the difficulty that few wish them well. 
The least false step compromises them. 

One of the commercial oracles of the Chan- 
nel Islands, a certain banker from Paris, named 
Jange, being consulted upon a steam -boat spec- 
ulation, was reported to have turned his back, 
with the remark, “An investment is it you pro 
pose to me? Yes ; an investment in smoke.” 

On the other hand, the sailing vessels had no 
difficulty in finding capitalists to take shares in 
a venture. Capital, in fact, was obstinately in 
favour of sails, and as obstinately against boil- 
ers and paddle-wheels. At Guernsey, the Du- 
rande was, indeed, a fact, but steam was not 
yet an established principle. Such is the fa- 
natical spirit of conservatism in opposition to 
progress. They said of Lethierry, “It is all 
very well, but he could not do it a second time.” 
Far from encouraging, his example inspired 
timidity. Nobody would have dared to risk 
another Durande. 


VI. 

CHANCE OF FINDING TIIE SLOOP. 

The equinoctial gales began early in the 
Channel. The sea there is narrow, and the 
winds disturb it easily. The westerly gales 
begin from the month of February, and the 
waves are beaten about from every quarter. 
Navigation becomes an anxious matter. The 
people on the coasts look to the signal-post, and 


begin to watch for vessels in distress. The sea 
is then like a cut-throat in ambush for his vic- 
tim. An invisible trumpet sounds the alarm 
of war with the elements, furious blasts spring 
up from the horizon, and a terrible wind soon 
begins to blow. The dark night whistles and 
howls. In the depth of the clouds the black 
tempest distends its cheeks, and the storm arises. 

The wind is one danger, the fogs are another. 

Fogs have from all time been the terror of 
mariners. In certain fogs microscopic prisms 
of ice are found in suspension, to Avhich Mari- 
otte attributes halos, mock suns, and parase- 
lenes. Storm-fogs are of a composite charac- 
ter; various gases of unequal specific gravity 
combine with the vapour of water, and arrange 
themselves, layer over layer, in an order which 
divides the dense mist into zones. Below ranges 
the iodine; above the iodine is the sulphur; 
above the sulphur the brome ; above the brome 
the phosphorus. This, in a certain manner, 
and making allowance for electric and magnetic 
tension, explains several phenomena, as the St. 
Elmo fire of Columbus and Magellan, the fly- 
ing stars moving about the ships of which Sen- 
eca speaks; the two flames, Castor and Pol- 
lux, mentioned by Plutarch ; the Roman legion 
whose spears appeared to Caesar to take fire ; 
the peak of the Chateau of Duino, in Friuli, 
which the sentinel made to sparkle by touching 
it with his lance ; and perhaps even those fi- 
gurations from the earth which the ancients 
called Satan’s terrestrial lightnings. At the 
equator, an immense mist seems permanently 
to encircle the globe. It is known as the cloud- 
ring ; the function of the cloud-ring is to tem- 
per the heat of the tropics, as that of the Gulf 
Stream is to mitigate the coldness of the Pole. 
Under the cloud-ring fogs are fatal. These are 
what are called the horse latitudes. It was here 
that navigators of bygone ages were accustomed 
to cast their horses into the sea to lighten the 
ship in stormy weather, and to economize the 
fresh water when becalmed. Columbus said, 
“ Nube abaxo ex inner te 1 ’ — death lurks in the 
low cloud. The Etruscans, who bear the same 
relation to meteorology which the Chaldeans 
did to astronomy, had two high-priests — the 
high-priest of the thunder, and the high-priest 
of the clouds. The “ fulgurators” observed the 
lightning, and the weather-sages watched the 
mists. The college of Priest-Augurs was con- 
sulted by the Syrians, the Phoenicians, the Pe- 
lasgi, and all the primitive navigators of the 
ancient Mare Internum. The origin of tempests 
was from that time forward partially under- 
stood. It is intimately connected with the gen- 
eration of fogs, and is, properly speaking, the 
same phenomenon. There exist upon the ocean 
three regions of fogs — one equatorial, and two 
polar. The mariners give them but one name, 
the pitch-pot. 

In all latitudes, and particularly in the Chan 
nel, the equinoctial fogs arc dangerous. They 
shed a sudden darkness over the sea. One of 
the perils of fogs, even when not very dense 


36 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


arises from their preventing the mariners per- 
ceiving the change of the bed of the sea by the 
variations of the colour of the water. The re- 
sult is a dangerous concealment of the approach 
of sands and breakers. The vessel steers to- 
wards the shoals without receiving any warn- 
ing. Frequently the fogs leave a ship no re- 
source except to lie-to or to cast anchor. There 
are as many shipwrecks from the fogs as from 
the winds. 

After a very violent squall succeeding one of 
these foggy days, the mail-boat Cashmere ar- 
rived safely from England. It entered at St. 
Peter’s Port as the first gleam of day appeared 
upon the sea, and at the very moment when the 
cannon of Castle Cornet announced the break 
of day. The sky had cleared ; the sloop Cash- 
mere was anxiously expected, as she was to 
bring the new rector of St. Sampson. 

A little after the arrival of the sloop, a ru- 
mour ran through the town that she had been 
hailed during the night at sea by a long-boat 
containing a shipwrecked crew. 


VII. 

HOW AN IDLER HAD THE GOOD FORTUNE TO BE 
SEEN BY A FISHERMAN. 

On that very night, at the moment when the 
wind abated, Gilliatt had gone out with his nets, 
without, however, taking his famous old Dutch 
boat too far from the coast. 

As he was returning with the rising tide, to- 
wards two o’clock in the afternoon, the sun was 
shining brightly, and he passed before the 
Beast’s Horn to reach the little bay of the Bu 
de la Rue. At that moment he fancied that he 
saw in the projection of the “ Gild-holm-’Ur” 
seat a shadow which was not that of the rock. 
He steered his vessel nearer, and was able to 
perceive a man sitting in the “Gild-holm-’Ur.” 
The sea was already very high — the rock en- 
circled by the waves — and escape entirely cut 
off. Gilliatt made signs to the man. The 
stranger remained motionless. Gilliatt drew 
nearer ; the man was asleep. 

He was attired in black. “He looks like a 
priest,” thought Gilliatt. He approached still 
nearer, and could distinguish the face of a young 
man. 

The features were unknown to him. 

The rock, happily, was peaked ; there was a 
good depth. Gilliatt wore off, and succeeded 
in skirting the rocky wall. The tide raised the 
bark so high that Gilliatt, by standing upon the 
gunwale of the sloop, could touch the man’s 
feet. He raised himself upon the planking, and 
stretched out his hands. If lie had fallen at 
that moment, it is doubtful if he would have 
risen again on the water; the waves were roll- 
ing in between the boat and the rock, and de- 
struction would have been inevitable. He pull- 
ed the foot of the sleeping man. “Ho! there. 
What are you doing in this place !” 


The man aroused, and muttered, 

‘ ‘ I was looking about. ” 

He was now completely awake, and con* 
tinued : 

“I have just arrived in this part. I came 
this way on a pleasure trip. I have passed the 
night on the sea : the view from here seemed 
beautiful. I was weary, and fell asleep.” 

“Ten minutes later, and you would have 
been drowned.” 

“Pshaw!” 

“Jump into my bark!” 

Gilliatt kept the bark fast with his foot, 
clutched the rock with one hand, and stretched 
out the other to the stranger in black, who 
sprang quickly into the boat. He was a fine 
young man. 

Gilliatt seized the tiller, and in two minutes 
his boat entered the bay of the BO. de la Rue. 

The young man wore a round hat and a 
white cravat; and his long black frock-coat w’as 
buttoned up to the neck. He had fair hair, 
which he wore cn covronne. He had a some- 
what feminine cast of features, a bright eye, a 
grave manner. 

Meanwhile the boat had touched the ground. 
Gilliatt passed the cable through the mooring- 
ring, then turned and perceived the young man 
holding out a sovereign in a very white hand. 

Gilliatt moved the hand gently away. 

There was a pause. The young man was th& 
first to break the silence. 

“You have saved my life.” 

“ Perhaps,” replied Gilliatt. 

The moorings were made fast, and they went 
ashore. 

The stranger continued : 

“1 owe you my life, sir.” 

“ No matter.” 

This reply from Gilliatt was again followed 
by a pause. 

“Do you belong to this parish?” 

“No,” replied Gilliatt. 

“To what parish, then?” 

Gilliatt lifted up his right hand, pointed to 
the sky, and said, 

“ To that yonder.” 

The young man bowed, and left him. 

After walking a few paces, the stranger stop- 
ped, felt in his pocket, drew out a book, and re- 
turning towards Gilliatt, offered it to him. 

“Permit me to make you a present of this.” 

Gilliatt took the volume : it was a Bible. 

An instant after, Gilliatt, leaning upon the 
parapet, was following the young man with his 
eyes as he turned the angle of the path which 
led to St’. Sampson. 

By little and little he lowered his gaze, forgot 
all about the stranger — knew no more whether 
the “ Gild-holm-’Ur” existed. Everything dis- 
appeared before him in the bottomless depth of 
a reverie. 

There was one abyss which swallowed up all 
his thoughts. This was De'ruchette. 

A voice calling him aroused him from this 
dream. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


37 


“ Ho, there ! Gilliatt!” 

He recognised the voice and looked up. 

“ What is the matter, Sieur Landoys?” 

It was, in fact, Sieur Landoys, who was pass- 
ing along the road about one hundred paces 
from the Bu de la Rue in his phaeton, drawn 
by one little horse. He had stopped to hail 
Gilliatt, but he seemed hurried. 

“There is news, Gilliatt.” 

“Where is that?” 


“At the Bravees.” 

“What is it?” 

“ I am too far off to tell you the story.* 
Gilliatt shuddered. 

“ Is Miss Deruchette going to be married?” 
“ No ; but she had better look out for a hus- 
band.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ Go up to the house, and you will learn.” 
And Sieur Landoys whipped on his horse. 


BOOK Y. 

THE REVOLVER. 


I. 

CONVERSATIONS AT THE JEAN AUBERGE. 

Sieur Clubin was a man who bided his time. 
He was short in stature, and his complexion was 
yellow. He had the strength of a bull. His 
sea life had not tanned his skin ; his flesh had a 
sallow hue ; it was the colour of a wax candle, 
of which his eyes, too, had something of the 
steady light. His memory was peculiarly re- 
tentive. With him, to have seen a man once, 
was to have him like a note in a note-book. 
His quiet glance took possession of you. The 
pupil of his eye received the impression of a 
face, and kept it like a portrait. The face 
might grow old, but Sieur Clubin never lost it ; 
it was impossible to cheat that tenacious memo- 
ry. Sieur Clubin was curt in speech, grave in 
manner, bold in action. No gestures were ever 
indulged in by him. An air of candour won 
everybody to him at first ; many people thought 
him artless. He had a wrinkle in the corner of 
his eye, astonishingly expressive of simplicity. 
As we have said, no abler mariner existed ; no 
one like him for reefing a sail, for keeping a 
vessel’s head to the wind, or the sails well set. 
Never did reputation for religion and integrity 
stand higher than his. To have suspected him 
would have been to bring yourself under suspi- 
cion. He was on terms of intimacy with Mon- 
sieur Re'buchet, a money-changer at St. Malo, 
who lived in the Rue St. Vincent, next door to 
the armourer’s ; and Monsieur Re'buchet would 
say, “I would leave my shop in Clubin’s hands.” 

Sieur Clubin was a widower; his wife, like 
himself, had enjoyed a high reputation for prob- 
ity. She had died with a fame for incorrupti- 
ble virtue. If the admiral had whispered gal- 
lant things in her ear, she would have impeach- 
ed him before the king. If a saint had made 
love to her, she would have told it to the priest. 
This couple, Sieur and Dame Clubin, had real- 
ized in Torteval the ideal of the English epithet 
“respectable.” Dame Clubin’s reputation was 
as the snowy whiteness of the swan ; Sieur 
Clubin’s like that of ermine itself — a spot would 
have been fatal to him. lie could hardly have 


picked up a pin without making inquiries for 
the owner. He would send round the town- 
crier about a box of matches. One day he 
went into a wine-shop at St. Servan, and said 
to the man who kept it, “ Three years ago I 
breakfasted here ; you made a mistake in the 
bill,” and he returned the man thirteen sous. 
He was the very personification of probity, with 
a certain compression of the lips indicative of 
watchfulness. 

He seemed, indeed, always on the watch — for 
rogues, probably. 

Every Tuesday he commanded the Durande 
on her passage from Guernsey to St. Malo. He 
arrived at St. Malo on the Tuesday evening, 
stayed two days there to discharge and take in 
a new cargo, and started again for Guernsey on 
Friday morning. 

There was at that period at St. Malo a little 
tavern near the harbour, which was called the 
“Jean Auberge.” 

The construction of the modern quays swept 
away this house. At this period, the sea came 
up as far as the St. Vincent and Dinan gates. 
St. Merlin and St. Servan communicated with 
each other by covered carts and other vehicles, 
which passed to and fro among vessels lying 
high and dry, avoiding the buoys, the anchors, 
and cables, and running the risk now and then 
of smashing their leathern hoods against the 
lowered yards, or the bars of a jibboom. Be- 
tween the tides, the coachmen drove their horses 
over those sands where six hours afterwards the 
winds would be beating the rolling waves. The 
four-and-twenty carrying dogs of St. Malo, who 
tore to pieces a naval officer in 1770, were ac- 
customed to prowl about this beach. This ex- 
cess of zeal on their part led to the destruction 
of the pack. Their nocturnal barkings are no 
longer heard between the little and the great 
Talard. 

Sieur Clubin was accustomed to stay at the 
Jean Auberge. The French office of the Du- 
rande was held there. 

The custom-house officers and coast-guard- 
men came to take their meals and to drink at 
the Jean Auberge. They had their separate 


38 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


tables. The custom-house officers of Birric 
found it convenient for the service to meet 
there with their brother officers of St. Malo. 

Captains of vessels came there also ; but they 
ate at another table. 

Sieur Clubin sat sometimes at one, sometimes 
at the other table, but preferred the table of the 
custom-house men to that of the sea-captains. 
He was always welcome at either. 

The tables were Avell served. There were 
strange drinks specially provided for foreign 
sailors. A dandy sailor from Bilboa could have 
been supplied there with a helada. People 
drank stout there, as at Greenwich, or brown 
gueuse , as at Antwerp. 

Masters of vessels who came from long voy- 
ages and privateersmen sometimes appeared at 
the captains’ table, where they exchanged news. 
“How are sugars? That commission is only 
for small lots. — The brown kinds, however, are 
going off. Three thousand bags of East India, 
and five hundred hogsheads of Sagua. — Take 
my word, the opposition will end by defeating 
Villele. — What about indigo ? Only seven ce- 
roons of Guatemala changed hands. — The ‘ Na- 
nine-Julia’ is in the roads ; a pretty three-mast- 
er from Brittany. — The two cities of La Plata 
are at loggerheads again. — When Monte Video 
gets fat, Buenos Ayres grows lean. — It has been 
found necessary to transfer the cargo of the 
‘ Regina-Coeli,’ which has been condemned at 
Callao. — Cocoas go off briskly. — Caraque bags 
arc quoted at one hundred and thirty -four, and 
Trinidad’s at seventy-three. — It appears that at 
the review in the Champ do Mars, the people 
cried, ‘DoAvn with the ministers!’ — The raw 
salt Saladeros hides are selling — ox-hides at 
sixty francs, and cows at forty-eight. — Have 
they passed the Balkan? — What is Diebitsch 
about ? — Aniseed is in demand at San Francis- 
co. Plagniol olive oil is quiet. — Gruvere cheese, 
in bulk, is thirty-two francs the quintal. — Well, 
is Leon XII. dead,”&c., &c. 

All these things were talked about and com- 
mented on aloud. At the table of the custom- 
house and coast-guard officers they spoke in a 
lower key. 

Matters of police and revenue on the coast 
and in the ports require, in fact, a little more 
privacy, and a little less clearness in the con- 
versation. 

The sea-captains’ table was presided over by 
an old captain of a large vessel, M. Gertrais-Ga- 
boureau. M. Gertrais-Gaboureau could hardly 
be regarded as a man ; he was rather a living 
barometer. His long life at sea had given him 
a surprising power of prognosticating the state 
of the Aveather. He seemed to issue a decree 
for the weather to-morroAV. He sounded the 
Avinds, and felt the pulse, as it were, of the 
tides. He might be imagined requesting the 
clouds to show their tongue — that is to say, their 
forked lightnings. He Avas the physician of 
the wave, the breeze, and the squall. The 
ocean Avas his patient. He had travelled round 
the world like a doctor going his visits, exam- 


ining every kind of climate in its good and bad 
condition. He Avas profoundly versed in the 
pathology of the seasons. Sometimes he would 
be heard deli\ r ering himself in this fashion — 
“The barometer descended in 1796 to three de- 
grees below tempest point.” He was a sailor 
from real love of the sea. He hated England 
as much as he liked the ocean. He had care- 
fully studied English seamanship, and consid- 
ered himself to liaA'e discovered its weak point. 
He would explain Iioav the “ Sovereign” of 1637 
differed from the “Royal William” of 1670, and 
from the “Victory” of 1775. He compared 
their build as to their forecastles and quarter- 
decks. He looked back with regret to the tOAA- 
ers upon the deck, and the funnel-shaped tops 
of the “ Great Harry” of 1514 — probably regard- 
ing them from the point of vieAv of convenient 
lodging places for French cannon-balls. In his 
eyes, nations only existed for their naval insti- 
tutions. He indulged in some odd figures of 
speech on this subject. He considered the term 
“The Trinity House” as sufficiently indicating 
England. The “ Northern Commissioners” 
Avere in like manner synonymous in his mind 
with Scotland; the “Ballast Board” with Ire- 
land. He Avas full of nautical information. 
He was, in himself, a marine alphabet and al- 
manack, a tariff, and loAv-Avater mark all com- 
bined. He kneAV by heart all the lighthouse 
dues, particularly those of the English coast — 
one penny per ton for passing before this ; one 
farthing before that. He Avould tell you that 
the Small Rock Light, Avhich once used to burn 
two hundred gallons of oil, notv consumes fifteen 
hundred. Once, aboard ship, he A\ r as attacked 
by a dangerous disease, and Avas believed to be 
dying. The crew assembled round his ham- 
mock, and in the midst of his groans and ago- 
ny, he addressed the chief carpenter with the 
Avords, “You had better make a mortice in each 
side of the main caps, and put in a bit of iron to 
help pass the top ropes through. His habit of 
command had given to his countenance an ex- 
pression of authority. 

It Avas rare that the subjects of conversation 
at the captains’ table and at that of the custom- 
house men Avere the same. This, however, did 
happen to be the case in the first days of that 
month of February, to Avhich the course of this 
history has notv brought us. The three-master 
“Tamaulipas,” Captain Zuela, arrived from 
Chili and bound thither again, was the theme 
of discussion at both tables. 

At the captains’ table they Avere talking of 
her cargo ; and at that of the custom-house peo- 
ple of certain circumstances connected with her 
recent proceedings. 

Captain Zuela, of Copiapo, Avas partly a Chil- 
ian and partly a Columbian. He had taken a 
part in the war of Independence in a truly inde- 
pendent fashion, adhering sometimes to Bolivar, 
sometimes to Morillo, according as he had found 
it to his interest. He had enriched himself by 
serving all causes. No man in the Avorld could 
have been more Bourbonist, more Bonapartb 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


3‘J 


more absolutist, more liberal, more atheistical, 
or more devoutly catholic. lie belonged to 
that great and renowned party which may be 
called the Lucrative party. From time to time 
he made his appearance in France on commer- 
cial voyages ; and if report spoke truly, he will- 
ingly gave a passage to fugitives of any kind — 
bankrupts or political refugees, it was all the 
same to him, provided ^liey could pay. His 
mode of taking them aboard was simple. The 
fugitive waited upon a lonely point of the coast, 
and at the moment of setting sail Tuela would 
detach a small boat to fetch him. On his last 
voyage he had assisted in this way an outlaw 
and fugitive from justice, named Berton^ and 
on this occasion he was suspected of being 
about to aid the flight of the men implicated in 
the affair of the Bidassoa. The police were in- 
formed, and had their eye upon him. 

This period was an epoch of flights and es- 
capes. The Restoration in France was a reac- 
tionary movement. Revolutions are fruitful of 
voluntary exile, and restorations of wholesale 
banishments. During the first seven or eight 
years which followed the return of the Bour- 
bons, panic was universal— in finance, in indus- 
try, in commerce, men felt the ground tremble 
beneath them. Bankruptcies were numerous in 
the commercial world ; in the political, there 
was a general rush to escape. Lavalette had 
taken flight, Lefebvre Desnouettes had taken 
flight, Delon had taken flight. Special tribu- 
nals were again in fashion. People instinct- 
ively shunned the esplanade de la Reole, the 
walls of the Observatoire in Paris, the tower of 
Taurias in Avignon — dismal landmarks in his- 
tory where the period of reaction has left its 
sign-spots, on which the marks of that blood- 
stained hand are still visible. In London the 
Thistlewood affair, with its ramifications in 
France ; in Paris the Trogoff trial, with its ram- 
ifications in Belgium, Switzerland, and Italy, 
had increased the motives for anxiety and flight, 
and given an impetus to that mysterious rout 
which left so many gaps in the social system of 
that day. To find a place of safety, this was 
the general care. To be implicated was to bo 
ruined. The spirit of the military tribunals 
had survived their institution. Sentences were 
matters of favour. People fled to Texas, to 
the Rocky Mountains, to Peru, to Mexico. The 
men of the Loire, traitors then, but now regard- 
ed as patriots, had founded the Champ (TAslle. 
Beranger in one of his songs says, 

u Barbarians ! vre are Frenchmen born ; 

Pity us, glorious, yet forlorn.” 


violates the conditions of his tickct-of-leave 
comports himself before the police as innocently 
as a saint; blit imagine innocence constrained 
to act a part; virtue disguising its voice; a 
glorious reputation hiding under a mask. Yon- 
der passer-by is a man of well-earned celebrity ; 
he is in quest of a false passport. The equiv- 
ocal proceedings of one absconding from the 
law is no proof that he is not a hero. Ephem- 
eral but characteristic features of the time of 
which our so-called regular history takes no 
note, but which the true painter of the age will 
bring out into relief. Under cover of these 
flights and concealments of honest men, genu- 
ine rogues, less watched and suspected, managed 
often to get clear off. A scoundrel, who found 
it convenient to disappear, would take advant- 
age of the general pell-mell, tack himself on to 
the political refugees, and, thanks to his greater 
! skill in the art, would contrive to appear in that 
dim twilight more honest even than his honest 
neighbours. Nothing looks more awkward and 
confused sometimes than honesty unjustly con- 
demned. It is out of its element, and is almost 
sure to commit itself. 

It is a curious fact that this voluntary expa- 
triation, particularly with honest folks, appeared 
to lead to every strange turn of fortune. The 
modicum of civilization which a scamp brought 
with him from London or Paris became, per- 
haps, a valuable stock in trade in some primi- 
tive country, ingratiated him with the people, 
and enabled him to strike into new paths. 
There is nothing impossible in a man’s escap- 
ing thus from the laws, to reappear elsewhere 
as a dignitary among the priesthood. There 
was something phantasmagorial in these sudden 
disappearances ; and more than one such flight 
has led to events like the marvels of a dream. 
An escapade of this kind, indeed, seemed to end 
naturally in the wild and wonderful ; as when 
some broken bankrupt suddenly decamps to 
turn up again twenty years later as Grand Viz- 
ier to the Mogul or as a king in Tasmania. 

Rendering assistance to these fugitives was an 
established trade, and looking to the abundance 
of business of that kind was a highly profitable 
one. It was generally carried on as a supple- 
mentary branch of certain recognised kinds of 
commerce. A person, for instance, desiring to 
escape to England, applied to the smugglers ; 
one who desired to get to America had recourse 
to sea-captains like Zuela. 


Self-banishment was the only resource left. ■ 
Nothing, perhaps, seems simpler than flight, ; 
but that monosyllable has a terrible significance. 
Every obstacle is in the way of the man who 
slips away. Taking to flight necessitates dis- 
guise. Persons of importance — even illustrious 
characters — were reduced to these expedients, 
only fit for malefactors. Their independent 
habits rendered it difficult for them to escape 
through the meshes of authority. A rogue who 


II. 

CLTJBIN OBSERVES SOME OXE. 

Zuela came sometimes to take refreshment 
at the Jean Auberge. Clubin knew him by 
sight. 

For that matter, Clubin was not proud. He 
did not disdain even to know scamps by sight. 
He even went so far sometimes as to cultivate 
even a closer acquaintance with them ; giving 


40 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


his hand in the open street, or saying good-day 
to them. He talked English with the smug- 
glers, and jabbered Spanish with the contreban - 
distas. On this subject lie had at command a 
number of apologetic phrases. “Good,” he 
said, “can be extracted out of the knowledge 
of evil. The gamekeeper may find advantage 
in knowing the poacher. The good pilot may 
sound the depths of a pirate, who is only a sort 
of hidden rock. I test the quality of a scoun- 
drel as a doctor will test a poison.” There was 
no answering a battery of proverbs like this. 
Everybody gave Clubin credit for his shrewd- 
ness. People praised him for not indulging in 
a ridiculous delicacy. Who, then, should dare 
to speak scandal of him on this point? Every- 
thing he did was evidently “for the good of the 
service.” With him all was straightfonvard. 
Nothing could stain his good fame. Crystal 
might more easily become sullied. This gen- 
eral confidence in him w r as the natural reward 
of a long life of integrity, the crowding advant- 
age of a settled reputation. Whatever Clubin 
might do, or appear to do, was sure to be inter- 
preted favourably. He had attained almost to 
a state of impeccability. Over and above this, 
“ He is very wary,” people said ; and from a sit- 
uation which in others would have given rise to 
suspicion, his integrity ■would extricate itself 
with a still greater halo of reputation for abil- 
ity. This reputation for ability mingled har- 
moniously with his fame for perfect simplicity 
of character. Great simplicity and great tal- 
ents in conjunction are not uncommon. The 
compound constitutes one of the varieties of the 
virtuous man, and one of the most valuable. 
Sieur Clubin was one of those men who might 
be found in intimate conversation with a sharp- 
er or a thief, without suffering any diminution 
of respect in the minds of their neighbours. 

The “Tamaulipas” had completed her load- 
ing. She was ready for sea, and was preparing 
to sail very shortly. 

One Tuesday evening the Durande arrived 
at St. Malo while it was still broad daylight. 
Sieur Clubin, standing upon the bridge of the 
vessel, and superintending the manoeuvres nec- 
essary for getting her into port, perceived upon 
the sandy beach, near, the Petit-Bey, two men, 
who were conversing between the rocks in a 
solitary spot. He observed them with his sea- 
glass, and recognised one of the men. It was 
Captain Zuela. He seemed to recognise the 
other also. 

This other was a person of high stature, a 
little gray. He wore the broad-brimmed hat 
and the sober clothing of the Society of Friends. 
He was probably a Quaker. He lowered his 
gaze with an air of extreme diffidence. 

On arriving at the Jean Auberge, Sieur Clu- 
bin learned that the “Tamaulipas” was prepar- 
ing to sail in about ten days. 

It has since become known that he obtained 
information on some other points. 

That night he entered the gunsmith’s shop in 
the St. Vincent Street, and said to the master, 


“ Do you know what a revolver is ?” 

“Yes,” replied the gunsmith. “It is aft 
American weapon.” 

“It is a pistol, with which a man can carry 
on a conversation.” 

“Exactly; an instrument which comprises 
in itself both the question and the answer.” 

“And the rejoinder too.” 

“Precisely, Monsieur Clubin. A rotatory 
clump of barrels.” 

“ I shall want five or six balls.” 

The gunmaker twisted the corner of his lip, 
and made that peculiar noise with which, when 
accompanied b}' a toss of the head, Frenchmen 
express admiration. 

“The weapon is a good one, Monsieur Clu- 
bin.” 

“I want a revolver with six barrels.” 

“I have not one.” 

“What! and you a gunmaker !” 

“I do not keep such articles yet. You see, 
it is a new thing. It is only just coming into 
vogue. French makers as yet confine them- 
selves to the simple pistol.” 

“Nonsense.” 

“It has not yet become an article of com- 
merce.” 

“Nonsense, I say.” 

“ I have excellent pistols.” 

“I want a revolver.” 

“I agree that it is more useful. Stop, Mon- 
sieur Clubin !” 

“What?” 

“I believe I know where there is one at this 
moment in St. Malo — to be had a bargain.” 

“A revolver?” 

“Yes.” 

“For sale?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Where is that?” 

“ I believe I know ; or I can find out.” 

“When can you give me an answer?” 

“A bargain ; but good — ” 

“ When shall I return ?” 

“If I procure you a revolver, remember, it 
will be a good one.” 

“When will you give me an answer?” 

“ After your next voyage.” 

“Do not mention that it is for me,” said 
Clubin. 


III. 

CLUBIN CARRIES AWAY SOMETHING AND BRINGS 
BACK NOTHING. 

Sieur Clubin completed the loading of the 
Durande, embarked a number of cattle and some 
passengers, and left St. Malo for Guernsey as 
usual on the Friday morning. 

On that same Friday, when the vessel had 
gained the open, which permits the captain to 
absent himself a moment from the place of com- 
mand, Clubin entered his cabin, shut himself in, 
took a travelling bag which he kept there, put 
into one of its compartments some biscuit, some 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


41 


boxes of preserves, a few pounds of chocolate in 
sticks, a chronometer, and a sea telescope, and 
passed through the handles a cord, ready pre- 
pared to sling it if necessary. Then he de- 
scended into the hold, went into the compart- 
ment where the cables are kept, and was seen 
to come up again with one of those knotted 
ropes heavy with pieces of metal, which are 
used for ship-caulkers at sea, and by robbers 
ashore. Cords of this kind are useful in climb- 
ing. 

Having arrived at Guernsey, Clubin repaired 
to Torteval. He took with him the travelling 
bag and the knotted cord, but did not bring 
them back again. 

Let us repeat, once for all, the Guernsey 
which we are describing is that ancient Guern- 
sey which no longer exists, and of which it would 
be impossible to find a parallel now any where 
except in the country. There it is still flourish- 
ing, but in the towns it has passed away. The 
same remarks apply to Jersey. St. Heliers is 
as civilized as Dieppe, St. Peter’s Port as L’Ori- 
ent. Thanks to the progress of civilization, 
thanks to the admirably enterprising spirit of 
that brave island people, every thing has been 
changed during the last forty years in the Nor- 
man archipelago. Where there was darkness 
there is now light. With these premises let us 
proceed. 

At that period, which is already so far re- 
moved from us as to have become historical, 
smuggling was carried on very extensively in 
the Channel. The smuggling vessels abound- 
ed, particularly on the western coast of Guern- 
sey. People of that peculiarly clever kind who 
know, even in the smallest details, what went 
on half a century ago, will even cite you the 
names of these suspicious craft, which were al- 
most always Asturians or Guipuseans. It is 
certain that a week scarcely ever passed with- 
out one or two being seen either in Saint’s Bay 
or at Pleinmont. Their coming and going had 
almost the character of a regular service. A 
cavern in the cliffs at Sark was called then, and 
is still called, the “ Shops,” from its being the 
place where these smugglers made their bar- 
gains with the purchasers of their merchandise. 
This sort of traffic had in the Channel a dialect 
of its own, a vocabulary of contraband technic- 
alities now forgotten, and which was to the 
Spanish what the “Levantine” is to the Italian. 

On many parts of the English coast smug- 
gling had a secret but cordial understanding 
with legitimate and open commerce. It had 
access to the house of more than one great fin- 
ancier — bv the back stairs, it is true — and its in- 
fluence extended itself mysteriously through all 
the commercial world, and the intricate ramifi- 
cations of manufacturing industry. Merchant 
on one side, smuggler on the other — such was 
the key to the secret of many great fortunes. 
Seguin affirmed it of Bourgain, Bourgain of Se- 
guin. We do not vouch for their accusations ; 
it is possible that they were calumniating each 
other. However this may have been, it is cer- 


tain that the contraband trade, though hunted 
down by the law, was flourishing enough in cer- 
tain financial circles. It had relations with 
“the very best society.” Thus the brigand 
Mandrin in other days found himself occasion- 
ally hob-a-nob with the Count of Charolais ; for 
this underhand trade often contrived to put on 
a very respectable appearance — kept a house of 
its own, with an irreproachable exterior. 

All this necessitated a host of manoeuvres 
and connivances, which required impenetrable 
secrecy. A contrabandist was intrusted with a 
good many things, and knew how to keep them 
secret. An inviolable confidence was the con- 
dition of his existence. The first quality, in 
fact, in a smuggler, was strict honour in his own 
circle. No discreetness, no smuggling. Fraud 
had its secrets like the priest’s confessional. 

These secrets were, indeed, as a rule, faithful- 
ly kept. The contrabandist swore to betray 
nothing, and he kept his word ; nobody was 
more trustworthy than the genuine smuggler. 
The Judge Alcade ^Oyarzun captured a smug- 
gler one day, and put him to torture to compel 
him to disclose the name of the capitalist who 
secretly supported him. The smuggler refused 
to tell. The capitalist in question was the 
Judge Alcade himself. Of these two accom- 
plices, the judge and the smuggler, the one had 
been compelled, in order to appear in the eyes 
of the world to fulfill the law, to put the other 
to the torture, which the other had patiently 
borne for the sake of his oath. 

The two most famous smugglers who haunted 
Pleinmont at that period were Blasco and Blas- 
quito. They were Tocayos. This was a sort 
of Spanish or Catholic relationship which con- 
sisted in having the same patron saint in heaven ; 
a thing, it will be admitted, not less worthy of 
consideration than having the same father upon 
earth. 

When a person was initiated into the furtive 
ways of the contraband business, nothing was 
more easy, or, from a certain point of view, more 
troublesome. It was sufficient to have no feai 
of dark nights, to repair to Pleinmont, and to 
consult the oracle located there. 


IV. 

PLEINMONT. 

Pleinmont, near Torteval, is one of the three 
corners of the island of Guernsey. At the ex- 
tremity of the cape there rises a high turfy hill, 
which looks over the sea. 

The height is a lonely place — all the more 
lonely from there being one solitary house there. 

This house adds a sense of terror to that of 
solitude. 

It is popularly believed to be haunted. 

Haunted or not, its aspect is singular. 

Built of granite, and rising only one story 
high, it stands in the midst of the grassy soli- 
tude. It is in a perfectly good condition as fat 


42 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


as exterior is concerned ; the walls are thick 
and the roof is sound. Not a stone is wanting 
in the sides, not a tile upon the roof. A brick- 
built chimney-stack forms the angle of the roof. 
The building turns its back to the sea, being on 
that side merely a blank wall. On examining 
this wall, however, attentively, the visitor per- 
ceives a little window bricked up. The two ga- 
bles have three dormer windows, one fronting 
the east, the others fronting the west, but all 
three bricked up in like manner. The front, 
which looks inward, has alone a door and win- 
dows. This door, too, is walled in, as are also 
the two windows of the ground floor. On the 
first floor — and this is the feature which is most 
striking as you approach — there are two open 
windows; but these are even more suspicious 
than the blind windows. Their open squares 
look dark even in broad day, for they have no 
panes of glass, or even window-frames. They 
open simply upon the dusk within. They strike 
the imagination like hollow eye-sockets in a hu- 
man face. Inside all is deserted. Through the 
gaping casements you may mark the ruin within. 
No panellings, no woodwork ; all bare stone. 
It is like a windowed sepulchre, giving liberty 
to the spectres to look out upon the daylight 
world. The rains sap the foundations on the 
seaward side. A few nettles, shaken by the 
breeze, flourish in the lower part of the walls. 
Far around the horizon there is no other hu- 
man habitation. The house is a void — the abode 
of silence ; but if you place your car against 
the wall and listen, you may distimr ish a con- 
fused noise now and then, like the flutter of 
wings. Over the walled door, upon the stone 
which forms its architrave, are sculptured these 
letters, “Elm-Pbilg,” with the date “ 1780.” 

The dark shadow of night and the mournful 
light of the moon find entrance there. 

The sea completely surrounds the house. Its 
situation is magnificent ; but for that reason its 
aspect is more sinister. The beauty of the spot 
becomes a puzzle. Why does not a human fam- 
ily take up its abode here ? The place is beau- 
tiful, the house is good. Whence this neglect ? 
To these questions, obvious to the reason, suc- 
ceed others, suggested by the reverie which the 
place inspires. Why is this cultivatable gar- 
den uncultivated? No master for it; and the 
bricked-up doorway ? What has happened to 
the place ? Why is it shunned by men ? What 
business is done here? If none, why is there 
no one here? Is it when all the rest of the 
world are asleep, that some one in this spot is 
awake? Dark squalls, wild winds, birds of 
prey, strange creatures, unknown forms, pre- 
sent themselves to the mind, and connect them- 
selves somehow with this deserted house. For 
what class of wayfarers is this the hostelry ? 
You imagine to yourself whirlwinds of rain and 
hail beating in at the open casements, and wan- 
dering through the rooms. Tempests have left 
their vague traces upon the interior walls. The 
chambers, though walled and covered in, are 
visited by the hurricanes. Has the house been 


the scene of some great crime ? You may al- 
most fancy that this spectral dwelling, given up 
to solitude and darkness, might be heard calling 
aloud for succour. Does it remain silent ? Do 
voices indeed issue from it? What business 
has it on hand in this lonely place ? The mys- 
tery of the dark hours rests securely here. Its 
aspect is disquieting at noon-dav ; what must it 
be at midnight? The dreamer asks himself — 
for dreams have their coherence — what this 
house may be between the dusk of evening and 
the twilight of approaching dawn ? Has the 
vast supernatural world some relation with this 
deserted height, which sometimes compels it to 
arrest its movements here, and to descend and 
to become visible ? Do the scattered elements 
of the spirit world whirl around it? Does the 
impalpable take form and substance here ? In- 
soluble riddles! A holy awe is in the very 
stones; that dim twilight has surely relations 
with the infinite Unknown. When the sun has 
gone down, the song of the birds will be hushed, 
the goatherd behind the rocks will go homeward 
with his goats ; reptiles, taking courage from 
the gathering darkness, will creep through the 
fissures of rocks ; the stars will begin to appear, 
night will come, and yonder two blank case- 
ments will still be staring at the sky. They 
open to welcome spirits and apparitions ; for it 
is by the names of apparitions, ghosts, phantom 
faces vaguely distinct, masks in the lurid light, 
mysterious movements of minds, and shadows, 
that the popular faith, at once ignorant and pro- 
found, translates the sombre relations of this 
dwelling with the world of darkness. 

The house is “haunted;” the popular phrase 
comprises everything. 

Credulous minds have their explanation, 
and common-sense thinkers have theirs also. 
“Nothing is more simple,” say the one, “than 
the history of the house. It is an old observa- 
tory of the time of the Revolutionary Wars and 
the days of smuggling. It was built for such 
objects. The wars being ended, the house was 
abandoned ; but it was not pulled down, as it 
might one day again become useful. The door 
and windows have been walled up to prevent 
people entering, or doing injury to the interior. 
The walls of the windows, on the three sides 
which face the sea, have been bricked up against 
the winds of the south and south-west. That 
is all.” 

The ignorant and the credulous, however, arc 
not satisfied. In the first place, the house was 
not built at the period of the wars of the Rev- 
olution. It bears the date “1780,” which was 
anterior to the Revolution. In the next place, 
it was not built for an observatory. It bears 
the letters “Elm-Pbilg,” which are the double 
monogram of two families, and which indicate, 
according to usage, that the house was built for 
the use of a newly-married couple. Then it 
has certainly been inhabited : why then should 
it be abandoned? If the door and windows 
were bricked up to prevent people entering the 
house only, why were two windows left, open ? 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


43 


\ 

Why are there no shutters, no window-frames, 1 
no glass ? Why were the walls bricked in on | 
one side, if not on the other? The wind is pre- 
vented from entering from the south ; but why 
is it allowed to enter from the north ? 

The credulous are wrong, no doubt ; but it is 
clear that the common-sense thinkers have not 
discovered the key to the mystery. The prob- 
lem remains still unsolved. 

It is certain that the house is generally be- 
lieved to have been more useful than inconve- 
nient to the smugglers. 

The growth of superstitious terror tends to 
deprive facts of their true proportions. With- 
out doubt, many of the nocturnal phenomena 
which have, by little and little, secured to the 
building the reputation of being haunted, might 
be explained by obscure and furtive visits, by 
brief sojourns of sailors near the spot, and 
sometimes by the precaution, sometimes by the 
daring, of men engaged in certain suspicious 
occupations concealing themselves for their dark 
purposes, or allowing themselves to be seen in 
order to inspire dread. 

At this period, akeady a remote one, many 
daring deeds were possible. The police — par- 
ticularly in small places — was by no means as 
efficient as in these days. 

Add to this, that if the house was really, as 
was said, a resort of the smugglers, their meet- 
ings there must, up to a certain point, have 
been safe from interruption precisely because 
the house was dreaded by the superstitious peo- 
ple of the country. Its ghostly reputation pre- 
vented its being visited for other reasons. Peo- 
ple do not generally apply to the police, or of- 
ficers of customs, on the subject of spectres. 
The superstitious rely on making the sign of 
the cross ; not on magistrates and indictments. 
There is always a tacit connivance, involuntary 
it may be, but not the less real, between the 
objects which inspire fear and their victims. 
The terror-stricken feel a sort of culpability in 
having encountered their terrors ; they imagine 
themselves to have unveiled a secret ; and they 
have an inward fear, unknown even to them- 
selves, of aggravating their guilt, and exciting 
the anger of the apparitions. All this makes 
them discreet. And over and above this rea- 
son, the very instinct of the credulous is si- 
lence; dread is akin to dumbness; the terri- 
fied speak little ; horror seems always to whis- 
per “ Hush!” 

It must be remembered that this was a pe- 
riod when the Guernsey peasants believed that 
the mystery of the Holy Manger is repeated by 
oxen and asses every year on a fixed day ; a 
period when no one would have dared to enter 
a stable at night for fear of coming upon the 
animals on their knees. 

If the local legends and stories of the people 
can be credited, the popular superstition went 
so far as to fasten to the walls of the house at 
Pleinmont things of which the traces are still 
visible, rats without feet, bats without wings, 
and bodies of other dead animals. Here, too, 


were seen toads crushed between the pages of a 
Bible, bunches of yellow lupins, and other 
strange offerings, placed there by imprudent 
passers-by at night, who, having fancied that 
they had seen something, hoped by these small 
sacrifices to obtain pardon, and to appease the 
ill-humours of were-wolves and evil spirits. J n 
all times, believers of this kind have flourished ; 
some even in very high places. Cresar consult- 
ed Saganius, and Napoleon, Mademoiselle Le- 
normand. There are a kind of consciences so 
tender that they must seek indulgencies even 
from Beelzebub. “ May God do, and Satan not 
undo,” was one of the prayers of Charles the 
Fifth. They come to persuade themselves that 
they may commit sins even against the Evil 
One ; and one of their cherished objects was 
to be irreproachable even in the eyes of Satan. 
We find here an explanation of those adorations 
sometimes paid to infernal spirits. It is only 
one more species of. fanaticism. Sins against 
the devil certainly exist in certain morbid imag- 
inations. The fancy that they have violated 
the laws of the lower regions torments certain 
eccentric casuists; they are haunted with scru- 
ples even about offending the demons. A be- 
lief in the efficacy of devotions to the spirits of 
the Brocken or Armuyr, a notion of having com- 
mitted sins against Hell, visionary penances for 
imaginary crimes, avowals of the truth to the 
spirit of falsehood, self-accusation before the ori- 
gin of all evil, and confessions in an inverted 
sense, are all realities, or things at least which 
have existed. The annals of criminal procedure 
against witchcraft and magic prove this in every 
page. Human folly unhappily extends even 
thus far: when terror seizes upon a man he 
does not stop easily. He dreams of imaginary 
faults, imaginary purifications, and clears out 
his conscience with the old witches’ broom. 

Be this as it may, if the house at Pleinmont 
had its secrets, it kept them to itself; except 
by some rare chance, no one went there to sec. 
It was left entirely alone. Few people, indeed, 
like to run the risk of an encounter with the 
other world. 

Owing to the terror which it inspired, and 
which kept at a distance all who could observe 
or bear testimony on the subject, it had always 
been easy to obtain an entrance there at night 
by means of a rope-ladder, or even by the use 
of the first ladder coming to hand in one of the 
neighbouring fields. A consignment of goods 
or provisions, left there, might await in perfect 
safety the time and opportunity for a furtive 
embarkation. Tradition relates that forty years 
ago a fugitive — for political offences as some af- 
•■fiwu^for commercial as others say — remained 
for some time concealed in the haunted houso 
at Pleinmont, whence he finally succeeded in 
embarking in a fishing-boat for England. From 
England, a passage is easily obtained to America. 

Tradition also avers that provisions, deposit- 
ed in this house remain there untouched, Luci- 
fer and the smugglers having an interest in in- 
ducing whoever places them there to return. 


<4 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


From the summit of this house there is a 
view to the south of the Hanway Rocks, at 
about a mile from the shore. 

These rocks are famous. They have been 
guilty of all the evil deeds of which rocks are 
capable. They are the most ruthless destroy- 
ers of the sea. They lie in a treacherous am- 
bush for vessels in the night. They have con- 
tributed to the enlargement of the cemeteries 
at Torteval and Iiocquaine. 

A lighthouse was erected upon these rocks 
in 18G2. At the present day, the Hanways 
light the way for the vessels which they once 
lured to destruction ; the destroyer in ambush 
now bears a lighted torch in his hand ; and 
mariners seek in the horizon, as a protector and 
a guide, the rock which they used to fly as a 
pitiless enemy. It gives confidence by night in 
that vast space where it was so long a terror — 
like a robber converted into a gendarme. 

There are three Hanways — the Great. Han- 
ways, the Little Hanways, and the Purple 
Hanways. It is upon the Little Hanways that 
the Red Light is placed at the present time. 

This reef of rocks forms part of a group of 
peaks, some beneath the sea, some rising out 
of it. It towers above them all ; like a fortress, 
it has advanced works : on the side of the open 
sea, a chain of thirteen rocks; on the north, 
two breakers — the High Fourquies, the Needles, 
and a sand-bank called the Ilerouee. On the 
south, three rocks — the Cat Rock, the Pcrce'e, 
and the Ilerpin Rock; then two banks — the 
South Bank and the Muet ; besides which, 
there is, on the side opposite Pleinmont, the 
Tas de Pois d Aval. 

To swim across the channel from the Han- 
ways to Pleinmont is difficult, but not impossi- 
ble. We have already said that this ivas one 
of the achievements of Clubin. The expert 
swimmer who knows this channel can find two 
resting-places — the Round Rock, and further 
on, a little out of the course, to the left, the 
Red Rock. 

O 

y. 

THE BIRDS’-NESTERS. 

It was near the period of that Saturday which 
Was passed by Sieur Clubin at Torteval that 
a curious incident occurred, which was little 
known at the time, and which did not generally 
transpire till a long time afterwards. For many 
things, as we have already observed, remain un- 
divulged, simply by reason of the terror which 
they have caused in those who have witnessed 
them. 

In the night-time between Saturday and Sun- 
day — we are exact in the matter of the date, 
and we believe it to be correct — three boys 
climbed up the hill at Pleinmont. The boys 
returned to the village : they came from the 
seashore. They were what are called, in the 
corrupt French of that part, “ deniquoiseaux,” 
or birds’-nesters. Wherever there are cliffs and 


cleft - rocks overhanging the sea, the young 
birds’-nesters abound. The reader will remem- 
ber that Gilliatt interfered in this matter for the 
sake of the birds as well as for the sake of the 
children. 

The “deniquoiseaux” are a sort of sea-ur- 
chins, and are not a very timid species. 

The night was very dark. Dense masses of 
cloud obscured the zenith. Three o’clock had 
sounded in the steeple of Torteval, which is 
round and pointed like a magician’s hat. 

Why did the boys return so late ? Nothing 
more simple. They had been searching for sea- 
gulls’ nests in the Tas de Pois d Aval. The 
season having been very mild, the pairing of 
the birds had begun very early. The children, 
watching the fluttering of the male and female 
about their nests, and excited by the pursuit, 
had forgotten the time. The waters had crept 
up around them ; they had no time to regain 
the little bay in ■which they had moored their 
boat, and they were compelled to -wait upon one 
of the peaks of the Tas de Pois for the ebb of 
the tide. Hence their late return. Mothers 
wait on such occasions in feverish anxiety for 
the return of their children, and when they find 
them safe, give vent to their joy in the shape of 
anger, and relieve their tears by dealing them a 
sound drubbing. The boys accordingly hasten- 
ed their steps, but in fear and trembling. Their 
haste w*as of that sort which is glad of an excuse 
for stopping, and which is not inconsistent with 
a reluctance to reach their destination ; for 
they had before them the prospect of warm em- 
braces, to be followed with an inevitable thrash- 
ing. 

One only of the boys had nothing of this to 
fear. He was an orphan : a French boy, with- 
out father or mother, and perfectly content just 
then with his motherless condition ; for nobody 
taking any interest in him, his back was safe 
from the dreaded blows. The two others were 
natives of Guernsey, and belonged to the parish 
of Torteval. 

Having climbed the grassy hill, the three 
birds’-nesters reached the table-land on which 
w r as situate the haunted house. 

They began by being in fear, which is the 
proper frame of mind of every passer-by, and 
particularly of every child at that hour and in 
that place. 

They had a strong desire to take to their 
heels as fast as possible, and a strong desire, 
also, to stay and look. 

They did stop. 

They looked towards the solitary building. 

It was all dark and terrible. 

It stood in the midst of the solitary plain — an 
obscure block, a hideous but symmetrical ex- 
crescence ; a high square, massed with right- 
angled corners, something like an immense al- 
tar in the darkness. 

The first thought of the boys w r as to run : the 
second was to draw' nearer. They had never 
seen this house before. There is such a thing 
as a desire to be frightened arising from curios- 


45 


THE TOILERS 

5ty. They had a little French boy with them, 
which emboldened them to approach. 

It is known that the French have no fear. 

Besides, it is reassuring to have company in 
danger ; to be frightened in the company of two 
others is encouraging. 

And then they were a sort of hunters accus- 
tomed to peril. They were children ; they were 
used to search, to rummage, to spy out hidden 
things. They were in the habit of peeping into 
holes ; why not into this hole Hunting is ex- 
citing. Looking into birds’-nests perhaps gives 
an itch for looking a little into a nest of ghosts. 
A rummage in the dark regions. Why not ? 

, From prey to prey, says the proverb, we come 
to the devil. After the birds, the demons. The 
boys were on the way to learn the secret of those 
terrors of which their parents had told them. 
To be on the track of hobgoblin tales — nothing 
could be more attractive. To have long stories 
to tell like the good housewives. The notion 
was tempting. 

All this mixture of ideas, in their state of 
half confusion, half instinct, in the minds of the 
Guernsey birds’-nesters, finally screwed their 
courage to the point. They approached the 
house. 

The little fellow who served them as a sort 
of moral support in the adventure was certain- 
ly worthy of their confidence. He was a bold 
boy — an apprentice to a ship-caulker; one of 
those children who have already become men. 
He slept on a little straw in a shed in the ship- 
caulker’s yard, getting his own living, having 
red hair, and a loud voice ; climbing easily up 
walls and trees, not encumbered with prejudices 
in the matteir of property in the apples within 
his reach ; a lad who had worked in the repair- 
ing dock for vessels of war — a child of chance, 
a happy orphan, born in France, no one knew 
exactly where; ready to give a centime to a 
beggar; a mischievous fellow, but a good one at 
heart; one who had talked to Parisians. At 
this time he was earning a shilling a day by 
caulking the fishermen’s boats under repair at 
the Pequeriet. When he felt inclined he gave 
himself a holiday, and went birds' - nesting. 
Such was the little French boy. 

The solitude of the place impressed them 
with a strange feeling of dread. They felt the 
threatening aspect of the silent house. It was 
wild and savage. The naked and deserted pla- 
teau terminated in a precipice at a short dis- 
tance from its steep incline. The sea below 
was quiet. There was no wind. Not a blade 
of grass stirred. 

The birds’-nesters advanced by slow steps, the 
French boy at their head, and looking towards 
the house. 

One of them, afterwards relating the story, 
or as much of it as had remained in his head, 
added, “It did not speak.” 

They came nearer, holding their breath, as 
one might approach a savage animal. 

They had climbed the little hill at the side 
of the house which descended to seaward to- 


OF THE SEA. 

wards a little isthmus of rocks almost inaccessi- 
ble. They had come pretty near to the build- 
ing; but they saw only the southern side, which 
was all walled up. They did not dare to ap- 
proach by the other side, where the terrible 
windows were. 

They grew bolder, however ; the caulker? 
apprentice whispered, “Let’s veer to starboard. 
That’s the handsome side. Let’s have a look 
at the black windows.” 

The little band accordingly “veered to star- 
board,” and came round to the other side of 
the house. 

The two windows were lighted up. 

The boys took to their heels. 

When they had got to some distance, the 
French boy, however, returned. 

“Hillo!” said lie, “the lights have vanish- 
ed.” 

The light at the windows had, indeed, disap- 
peared. The outline of the building was seen 
as sharply defined as if stamped out with a 
punch against the livid sky. 

Their fear tvas not abated, but their curiosity 
had increased. The birds’-nesters approached. 

Suddenly the light reappeared at both win- 
dows at the same moment. 

The two young urchins from Tortevnl took 
to their heels, and vanished. The daring French 
boy did not advance, but he kept his ground. 

He remained motionless, confronting the 
house, and watching it. 

The light disappeared, and appeared again 
once more. Nothing could be more horrible. 
The reflection made a vague streak of light upon 
the grass, wet with the night dew. All of a 
moment the light cast upon the walls of tho 
house two huge dark profiles, and the shadows 
of enormous heads. 

The house, however, being without ceilings, 
and having nothing left but its four walls and 
roof, one window could not be lighted without 
the other. 

Perceiving that the caulker’s apprentice kept 
his ground, the other birds’-nesters returned, 
step by step, and one after the other, trembling 
and curious. The caulker’s apprentice whis- 
pered to them, “There are ghosts in the house. 
I have seen the nose of one.” The two Torte- 
val boys got behind their companion, standing 
tiptoe against his shoulder; and thus sheltered, 
and taking him for their shield, felt bolder, and 
watched also. 

The house, on its part, seemed also to be 
watching them. There it stood in tho. midst 
of that vast darkness and silence, with its two 
shining eyes. These were its upper windows. 
The light vanished, reappeared, and vanished 
again, in the fashion of these unearthly illumi- 
nations. These sinister intermissions have, 
probably, some connection with the opening 
and shutting of the infernal regions. The air- 
hole of a sepulchre has thus been seen to pro- 
duce effects like those from a dark lantern. 

Suddenly a dark form, like that of a human 
being, ascended to one of the windows, as if 


46 THE TOILERS 

from without, and plunged into the interior of j 
the house. 

To enter by the window is the custom with , 
spirits. 

The light was for a moment more brilliant, 
then went out, and appeared no more. The 
house became dark. The noises resembled 
voices. This is always the case. When there 
is anything to be seen, it is silent. When all 
becomes invisible again, noises are heard. 

There is a silence peculiar to night-time at 
sea. The repose of darkness is deeper on the 
water than on the land. When there is neither 
wind nor w r ave in that wild expanse, over which, 
in ordinary time, even the flight of eagles makes 
no sound, the movement of a fly could be heard. 
This sepulchral quiet gave a dismal relief to the 
noises which issued from the house. 

“Let us look,” said the French boy. 

And he made a step towards the house. 

The others were so frightened that they re- 
solved to follow him. They did not dare even 
to run aw r ay alone. 

Just as they had passed a heap of fagots, 
which for some mysterious reason seemed to in- 
spire them with a little courage in that solitude, 
a white owl flew towards them from a bush. 
The owls have a suspicious sort of flight, a side- 
long skim which is suggestive of mischief afloat. 
The bird passed near the boys, fixing upon them 
its round eyes, bright amidst the darkness. 

A shudder ran through the group behind the 
French boy. 

He looked up at the owl, and said, 

“Too late, my bird ; I will look.” 

And he advanced. 

The crackling sound made by his thick -nailed 
boots among the furze-bushes did not prevent 
his hearing the sounds in the house, which rose 
and fell with the continuousness and the calm 
accent of a dialogue. 

A moment afterwards, the boy added, 

“Besides, it is only fools who believe in 
spirits.” 

Insolence in the midst of danger rallies the 
cow r ardlv, and inspirits them to go on. 

The two Torteval lads resumed their march, 
quickening their steps behind the caulker’s ap- 
prentice. 

The haunted house seemed to them to grow 
larger before their eyes. This optical illusion 
of fear is founded in reality. The house did 
indeed grow larger, for they were coming nearer 
to it. 

Meanwhile the voices in the house took a 
tone more and more distinct. The children 
listened. The ear, too, has its power of exag- 
gerating. It was different from a murmur, more 
than a whispering, less than an uproar. Now 
and then one or two words, clearly articulated, 
could be caught. These words, impossible to 
be understood, sounded strangely. The boys 
stopped and listened, then went forward again. 

“ It is the ghosts talking,” said the caulker’s 
apprentice ; “but I don’t believe in ghosts.” 

The Torteval boys were sorely tempted to 


OF THE SEA. 

| shrink behind the heap of fagots, but they had 
! already left it far behind ; and their friend the 
; caulker continued to advance towards the house. 
They trembled at remaining with him, but they 
dared not leave him. 

Step by step, and perplexed, they followed. 
The caulker’s apprentice turned towards them 
and said, 

“You know it isn’t true. There are no such 
things.” 

The house grew taller and taller. The voices 
became more and more distinct. 

They drew nearer. 

And now they could perceive within the house 
something like a muffled light. It w r as a faint 
glimmer, like one of those effects produced by 
dark lanterns, already referred to, and which are 
common at the midnight meetings of witches. 

When they were close to the house they 
halted. 

One of the tw o Torteval boys ventured on an 
observation : 

“It isn’t spirits : it is ladies dressed in white.” 

“What’s that hanging from the window?” 
asked the other. 

‘ ‘ It looks like a rope.” 

“ It’s a snake.” 

“It is only cords hanging there,” said the 
French boy, authoritatively. “It is their way 
of getting up. But I don’t believe in them.” 

And in three bounds, rather than steps, he 
found himself against the wall of the build- 
ing. 

The two others, trembling, imitated him, and 
came pressing against him, one on his right side, 
the other on his left. The boys applied their 
ears to the walk The sounds continued. 

The following w r as the conversation of the 
phantoms : 

“Asi, entendido esta?” 

“Entendido.” 

“ Dicho ?” 

“Dicho.” 

“Aqui esperara un hombre, y podra mar- 
charse en Inglaterra con Blasquito.” 

“ Pagando?” 

“Pagando.” 

“Blasquito tomara al hombre en su barca.” 

“Sin buscar para conocer a su pais?” 

“No nos toca.” 

“Ni a su nombre del hombre?” 


“ So that is understood?” 

“Understood.” 

“ As is said?” 

“As is said.” 

“A man will wait here, and can accompany 
Blasquito to England.” 

“Paying the expense?” 

“Paying the expense.” 

“Blasquito will take the man in his barque 
without seeking to know what country he be- 
longs to ?” 

“That is no business of ours.” 

“Without asking his nnim ? ‘ 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


47 


“No se pide el nombre, pero se pesa la 
bolsa.” 

“ Bien : esperara el hombre en esa casa.” 
“Tenga que comer.” 

“Tendra.” 

“Onde?” 

“En este saco que he llevado.” 

“Muy bien.” 

“Puedo dexar el saco aqui?” 

“Los contrabandistas no son ladrones.” 

“Y vosotros, cuando marchais?” 

“ Manana por la manana. Si su hombre de 
usted parado, podria venir con nosotros.” 
“Parado no esta.” 

“ Hacienda suya.” 

“Cuantos dias esperara alii?” 

“Dos, tres, quatro dias; menos o mas.” 

“ Es cierto que el Blasquito vendra?” 
“Cierto.” 

“En este Plainmont?” 

“En este Plainmont.” 

“A qual semana?” 

“La que viene.” 

“A qual dia?” 

“ Yiernes, o sabado, o domingo.” 

“ No puede faltar ?” 

“Es mi tocayo.” 

“Por qualquiera tiempo viene?” 

“ Qualquiera. No tieme. Soy el Blasco, es 
el Blasquito.” 

“Asi, no puede faltar de venir en Guerne- 
sey?” 


“ We do not ask for names ; we only feel the 
weight of the purse.” 

“Good: the man shall wait in this house.” 
“He must have provisions.” 

“He will be furnished with them.” 

“How ?” 

“ From this bag which I have brought.” 

“ Very good.” 

“ Can I leave this bag here ?” 

“ Smugglers arc not robbers.” 

“ And when do you go?” 

“To-morrow morning. If your man was 
ready he could come with us.” 

“He is not prepared.” 

“ That is his affair.” 

“How many days will he have to wait in this 
house?” 

“ Two, three, or four days ; more or less.” 
“Is it certain that Blasquito will come?” 
“Certain.” 

“Here to Pleinmont?” 

“To Pleinmont.” 

“When?” 

“Next week.” 

“What day?” 

“Friday, Saturday, or Sunday.” 

“May he not fail?” 

“He is my Tocayo.” 

“Will he come in any weather?” 

“ At any time. He has no fear. My name 
is Blasco, his Blasquito.” 

“ So he cannot fail to come to Guern- 
sey ?” 


“ Yengo a un mes, y viene al otro mes.” 

“ Entiendo.” 

“A cuentar del otro sabado, desde hoy en 
ocho, no se pasaran cinco dias sin que venga el 
Blasquito.” 

“Pero un muy malo mar?” 

“Egurraldia gai'ztoa.” 

“Si.” 

“No vendria el Blasquito tan pronto, pero 
vendria.” 

“ Donde vendra?” 

“De Vilvao.” 

“Onde ira?” 

“ En Portland.” 

“Bien.” 

“Oen Tor Bay.” 

“Mejor.” 

“ Su humbre de usted puede estarse quieto.” 

“No traidor sera, el Blasquito?” 

“Los cabardes son traidores. Somos va- 
lientes. El mar es la iglesia del invierno. La 
traicion es la iglesia del infierno.” 

“No se entiende a lo que dicemos?” 

“Escuchar a nosotros y mirar a nosotros es 
imposible. La espanta hace alii el desierto.” 

“Lo se.” 

“ Quien se atravesaria a escuchar?” 

“ Es verdad.” 

“ Y escucharian que no entiendrian. Habla- 
mos a una lengua fiera y nuestra que no se 
conoce. Despues que la sabeis, erics con noso- 
tros.” 


“ I come one month — he the other.” 

“I understand.” 

“Counting from Saturday next, one week 
from to-day; five days cannot elapse without 
bringing Blasquito.” 

“But if there is much sea?” 

“Bad weather.” 

“Yes.” 

“Blasquito will not come so quickly, but he 
will come.” 

“ Whence will he come ?” 

“From Bilbao.” 

“ Where will he be going?” 

“ To Portland.” 

“Good.” 

“ Or to Torbay.” 

“Better still.” 

“Your man may rest easy.” 

“Blasquito will betray nothing?” 

“Cowards are the only traitors. We are 
men of courage. The sea is the winter church. 
Treason is the church of hell.” 

“No one hears what we say?” 

“It is impossible to be seen or overheard. 
The people’s fear of this spot makes it de- 
serted.” 

“ I know it.” 

“Who is there who would dare to listen here?” 

“True.” 

“Besides, if they listened, none would under* 
stand. We speak a wild language of our own, 
which nobody knows hereabouts. As you ktmvf 
it, you are one of us.” 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


18 


“Soy venido para componer las haciendas 
con ustedes.” 

“ Bueno.” 

“Y ahora me voy.” 

“Mucho.” 

“Digame usted, hombre. Si el pasagero 
quiere que el Blasquito le lleve en ninguna otra 
parte que Portland o Tor Bay ?” 

“Tonga onces.” 

“ El Blasquito hara lo que querra el hombre?” 

“ El Blasquito hace lo que quieren las onces.” 

“Es menester mucho tiempo para ir en Tor 
Bay?” 

“ Como quiere el viento.” 

“ Ocho boras?” 

“Menos, o mas.” 

“El Blasquito obedecera al pasagero?” 

“ Si le obedece el mar a el Blasquito.” 

“Bien pagado sera.” 

“El oro es el oro. El viento es el viento.” 

“ Mucho.” 

“El hombre hace lo que puedn con el oro. 
Dios con el viento hace lo que quiere.” 

“ Aqui sera viernes el que desea marcharse 
con Blasquito.” 

“Pues.” 

“A qual momento llega Blasquito?” 

“ A la noche. A la noche se llega, a la noche 
se marcha. Tenemos una muger quien se llama 
la noche. La muger puede faltar, la hermana 
no.” 

“Todo dicho esta. Abour, hombres.” 

“I came only to make these arrangements 
with you.” 

“Very good.” 

“I must now take my leave.” 

“ Be it so.” 

‘ ‘ Tell me ; suppose the passenger should wish 
Blasquito to take him anywhere else than to 
Portland or Torbay ?” 

“Let him bring some gold coins.” 

“ Will Blasquito consult the stranger’s con- 
venience ?” 

“Blasquito will do whatever the gold coins 
command.” 

“Does it take long to go to Torbay ?” 

“That is as it pleases the winds.” 

‘‘Eight hours?” 

“More or less.” 

“Will Blasquito obey the passenger?” 

“If the sea will obey Blasquito.” 

“He will be well rewarded.” 

“ Gold is gold ; and the sea is the sea.” 

“That is true.” 

“Man with his gold does what he can. 
Heaven with its winds does what it will.” 

“The man who is to accompany Blasquito 
\\ ill be here on Friday.” 

“Good.” 

“At what hour will Blasquito appear?” 

“In the night. We arrive by night; and 
sail by night. We have a wife who is called 
the sea, and a sister called night. The wife be- 
trays sometimes, but the sister never.” 

“All is settled, then. Good-night, mv men.” 


“ Buenas tardes. Un golpe de aquardiente ?” 

“ Gracias.” 

“Es mejor que xarope.” 

“Tengo vuestra palabra.” 

“Mi nombre es Pundonor.” 

“ Sea usted ccn Dios.” 

“Ereis gentleman, y soy caballero.” 

“ Good-night. A drop of brandy first?” 

“Thank you.” 

“That is better than a syrup.” 

“ I-liave your word.” 

“My name is Point-of-Honour.” 

“Adieu.” 

“You are a gentleman, I am a chevalier.” 

It was clear that only devils could talk in this 
way. The children did not listen long. This 
time they took to flight in earnest ; the French 
boy, convinced at last, running even quicker 
than the others. 

On the Tuesday following this Saturday, 
Sieur Clubin returned to St. Malo, bringing back 
the Durande. 

The “ Tamaulipas” was still at anchor in the 
roads. 

Sieur Clubin, between the whiffs of his pipe, 
said to the landlord of the Jean Auberge, 

“Well, and when does the ‘Tamaulipas’ get 
under way ?” 

“The day after to-morrow — Thursday,” re- 
plied the landlord. 

On that evening Clubin supped at the coast- 
guard officers’ table ; and, contrary to his habit, 
went out after his supper. The consequence of 
his absence was, that he could not attend to the 
office of the Durande, and thus lost a little in 
the matter of freights. This fact was remai’ked 
in a man ordinarily punctual. 

It appeared that he had chatted a few mo- 
ments with his friend the money-changer. 

He returned two hours after Noguette had 
sounded the Curfew bell. The Brazilian bell 
sounds at ten o’clock. It was therefore mid- 
night. 


VI. 

THE JACRESSADE. 

Forty years ago, St. Malo possessed an alley 
known by the name of the “Ruelle Coutan- 
cliez.” This alley no longer exists, having been 
removed for the improvements of the town. 

It was a double row of houses, leaning one 
towards the other, and leaving between them 
just room enough for a narrow rivulet, which 
was called the street. By stretching the legs, it 
was possible to walk on both sides of the little 
stream, touching with head or elbows, as you 
went, the houses either on the right or the left. 
These old relics of medieeval Normandy have al- 
most a human interest. Tumble-down houses 
and sorcerers always go together. Their lean- 
ing stories, their overhanging walls, their bowed 
penthouses, and their old thick-set irons, seem 
like lips, chins, nose, and eyebrows. The gar- 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


49 


ret window is the blind eye. The wall is the 
wrinkled and blotchy cheek. The opposite 
houses lay their foreheads together as if they 
were plotting some malicious deed. All those 
words of ancient villainy — like cut-throat, slit- 
weazand, and the like — are closely connected 
with architecture of this kind. 

One of these houses in the alley — the largest 
and the most famous or notorious — was known 
by the name of the Jacressade. 

The Jacressade was a lodging-house for peo- 
ple who do not lodge. In all towns, and partic- 
ularly in sea-ports, there is always found beneath 
the lowest stratum of society a sort of residuum : 
vagabonds who are more than a match for jus- 
tice ; rovers after adventures ; chemists of the 
swindling order, who are always dropping their 
lives’ gain into the melting-pot ; people in rags 
of every shape, and in every style of wearing 
them ; withered fruits of roguery ; bankrupt ex- 
istences ; consciences that have filed their sched- 
ule ; gentlemen who have failed in the house- 
breaking business (for the great masters of bur- 
glary move in a higher sphere) ; workmen and 
workwomen in the trade of wickedness; oddi- 
ties, male and female; men in coats out at el- 
bows ; scoundrels reduced to indigence ; rogues 
who have missed the wages of roguery ; men 
who have been hit in the social duel ; harpies 
who have no longer any prey ; petty larceners ; 
gueux in the double and unhappy meaning of 
that word. Such are the constituents of that 
living mass. Human intelligence is here re- 
duced to something bestial. It is the refuse of 
the social state, heaped up in an obscure corner, 
where from time to time descends that dreaded 
broom which is known by the name of police. 
In St. Malo, Jacressade was the name of this 
corner. 

It is not in dens of this sort that we find the 
high-class criminals — the robbers, forgers, and 
other great products of ignorance and poverty. 
If murder is represented here, it is generally in 
the person of some coarse drunkard ; in the 
matter of robbery, the company rarely rise high- 
er than the mere sharper. The vagrant is there, 
but not the highwayman. It would not, how- 
ever, be safe to trust this distinction. This last 
stage of vagabondage may have its extremes of 
scoundrelism. It was on an occasion, when 
casting their nets into the Epi-scie — which was 
in Paris what the Jacressade was in St. Malo — 
that the police captured the notorious Lacenaire. 

These lurking* places refuse nobody. To fall 
in the social scale has a tendency to bring men 
to one level. Sometimes honesty in tatters 
found itself there. Virtue and probity have 
been known before now to be brought to strange 
passes. We must not judge always by appear- 
ances, even in the palace or at the galleys. 
Public respect, as well as universal reprobation, 
require testing. Surprising results sometimes 
proceed from this principle. An angel may be 
discovered in the stews — a pearl in the dung- 
hill. Such sad and dazzling discoveries are not 
altogether unknown. 


The Jacressade was rather a court-yard than 
a house ; and more of a well than a court-yard. 
It had no stories looking on the street. Its fa-' 
9ade was simply a high wall, with a low gate* 
way. You raised the latch, pushed the gate, 
and were at once in the court-yard. 

In the midst of this yard might be perceived 
a round hole, encircled with a margin of stones, 
and even with the ground. The yard was small, 
the well large. A broken pavement surround- 
ed it. 

The court-yard was square, and built round 
on three sides only. On the side of the street 
was only the wail ; facing you as you entered 
the gateway stood the house, the two wings of 
which formed the sides to right and left. 

Any one entering there after nightfall, at his 
own risk and peril, would have heard a confused 
murmur of voices ; and, if there had been moon- 
light or starlight enough to give shape to the 
obscure forms before his eyes, this is what he 
would have seen. 

The court-yard — the well. Around the court- 
yard, in front of the gate, a lean-to or shed, in a 
sort of horse-shoe form, but with square corners; 
a rotten gallery, with a roof of joists supported 
by stone pillars at unequal distances. In the 
centre, the well ; around the well, upon a litter 
of straw, a kind of circular chaplet, formed of 
the soles of boots and shoes ; some trodden down 
at heel, some showing the toes of the wearers, 
some the naked heels. The feet of men, wom- 
en, and children, all asleep. 

Beyond these feet, the eye might have distin. 
guished, in the shadow of the shed, bodies, droop- 
ing heads, forms stretched out lazily, bundles of 
rags of both sexes, a promiscuous assemblage, a 
strange and revolting mass of life. The accom- 
modation of this sleeping chamber was open to 
all, at the rate of two sous a week. On a stormy 
night the rain fell upon the feet, the whirling 
snow settled on the bodies of those wretched 
sleepers. 

Who were these people? The unknown. 
They came there at night, and departed in the 
morning. Creatures of this kind form part of 
the social fabric. Some stole in during the 
darkness, and paid nothing. The greater part 
had scarcely eaten during the day. All kinds 
of vice and baseness, every sort of moral infec- 
tion, every species of distress were there. The 
same sleep settled down upon all in this bed of 
filth. The dreams of all these companions in 
misery went on side by side. A dismal meet- 
ing-place, where misery and weakness, half-so- 
bered debauchery, weariness from long walking 
to and fro, with evil thoughts, in quest of bread, 
pallor with closed eyelids, remorse, envy, lay 
mingled and festering in the same miasma, with 
faces that had the look of death, and dishevelled 
hair mixed with the filth and sweepings of the 
streets. Such was the putrid heap of life fer- 
menting in this dismal spot. An unlucky turn 
of the wheel of fortune, a ship arrived on the 
day before, a discharge from prison, or the dark 
night, or some other chance, had cast them here. 


T) 


50 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


to find a, miserable shelter. Every day brought 
some new accumulation of such misery. Let 
him enter who would, sleep who could, speak 
who dared ; for it was a place of whispers. The 
new-comers hastened to bury themselves in the 
mass, or tried to seek oblivion in sleep, since 
there was none in the darkness of the place. 
They snatched what little of themselves they 
could from the jaws of death. They closed their 
eyes in that confusion of horrors which every 
day renewed. They were the embodiment of 
misery, cast up from society, as the scum is from 
the sea. 

It was not every one who could even get a 
share of the straw. More than one figure was 
stretched out naked upon the flags. They lay 
down worn out with weariness, and awoke 
paralyzed. The well, without lid or parapet, 
and thirty feet in depth, gaped open night and 
day. Rain fell around it; filth accumulated 
about, and the gutters of the yard ran down arid 
filtered through its sides. The pail for drawing 
the water stood by the side. Those who were 
thirsty drank there : some, disgusted with life, 
drowned themselves in it — slipped from their 
slumber in the filthy shed into this profounder 
sleep. In the year 1819, the body of a boy, of 
fourteen years old, was taken up out of the well. 

To be safe in this house, it was necessary to 
be of the “right sort.” The uninitiated were 
regarded with suspicion. 

Did these miserable wretches, then, know 
each other? No; yet they scented out the 
genuine habitue of the Jacressade. 

The mistress of the house was a young and 
rather pretty woman, wearing a cap trimmed 
with ribbons. She washed herself now and then 
jvith water from the well. She had a wooden 
leg. 

At break of day, the court-yard became emp- 
ty. Its inmates dispersed. 

An old cock and some other fowls were kept 
in the court-yard, where they raked among the 
filth of the place all day long. A long horizon- 
tal beam, supported by posts, traversed the yard 
— a gibbet-shaped erection, not altogether out 
of keeping with the associations of the place. 
Sometimes, on the morrow of a rainy day, a silk 
dress, mndded and wet, w’ould be seen hanging 
out to dry upon this beam. It belonged to the 
woman with the wooden leg. 

Over the shed, and like it, surrounding the 
yard, was a story, and above this story a loft. 
A rotten wooden ladder, passing through a hole 
in the roof of the shed, conducted to this story ; 
and up this ladder the woman would climb, 
sometimes staggering while its crazy rounds 
creaked beneath her. 

The occasional lodgers, whether by the week 
or the night, slept in the court-yard ; the regu- 
lar inmates lived in the house. 

Windows without a pane of glass, door-frames 
with no door, fireplaces without stoves — such 
were the chief features of the interior. You 
might pass from one room to the other indiffer- 
ently, by a long square aperture which had been 


the door, or by a triangular hole between the 
joists of the partition. The fallen plaster of 
the ceiling lay about the floor. It was difficult 
to say how the old house still stood erect. The 
high winds indeed shook it. The lodgers as- 
cended as they could by the worn and slippery 
steps of the ladder. Everything was open to 
the air. The wintry atmosphere was absorbed 
into the house, like water into a sponge. The 
multitude of spiders seemed to guarantee the 
place against falling to pieces immediately. 
There was no sign of furniture. Two or three 
palliasses were in the corner, their ticking torn 
in parts, and showing more dust than straw 
within. Here and there were a water-pot and 
an earthen pipkin. A close, disagreeable odout 
haunted the rooms. 

The windows looked out upon the square 
yard. The scene was like the interior of a scav- 
enger’s cart. The things, not to speak of the 
human beings, which lay rusting, mouldering, 
and putrefying there, were indescribable. The 
fragments seemed to fraternize together. Some 
fell from the walls, others from the living ten- 
ants of the place. The debris was sown with 
their tatters. 

Besides the floating population which bivou- 
acked nightly in the square yard, the Jacressade 
had three permanent lodgers — a charcoal-man, 
a rag-picker, and a “gold-maker.” The char- 
coal-man and the rag-picker occupied two of the 
palliasses of the first story; the “gold-maker,’ 
a chemist, lodged in the loft, which was called, 
no one knew why, the garret. Nobody knew 
where the woman slept. The “gold-maker” 
was a poet in a small way. He inhabited a room 
in the roof, under the tiles — a chamber with a 
narrow window, and a large stone fireplace 
forming a gulf, in which the wind howled at 
will. The garret window having no frame, he 
had nailed across it a piece of iron sheathing, 
part of the wreck of a ship. This sheathing 
left little room for the entrance of light, and 
much for the entrance of cold. The charcoal- 
man paid rent from time to time in the shape 
of a sack of charcoal ; the rag-picker paid with 
a bowl of grain for the fowls every week; the 
“gold-maker” did not pay at all. Meanwhile 
the latter consumed the very house itself for fuel. 
He had pulled down the little wood-work which 
remained ; and every now and then he took from 
the wall or the roof a lath or some scantling, to 
heat his crucible. Upon the partition, above 
the rag-picker’s mattress, might have been seen 
two columns of figures, marked in chalk by the 
rag-picker himself from week to week — a col- 
umn of threes, and a column of fives — according 
as the bowl of grain had cost him three liards or 
five centimes. The gold-pot of the “ chemist” 
was an old fragment of a bomb-shell, promoted 
by him to the dignity of a crucible, in which he 
mixed his ingredients. The transmutation of 
metals absorbed all his thoughts. He was de- 
termined not to die until he had revenged him- 
self by breaking the windows of orthodox sci- 
ence with the real philosopher’s stone. His fur- 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


nace consumed a good deal of wood. The hand- 
rail of the stairs had disappeared. The house 
was slowly burning away. The landlady said 
to him, “You will leave us nothing but the 
shell.” He mollified her by addressing her in 
verses. 

Such was the Jacressade. 

A boy of twelve, or, perhaps, sixteen — for he 
was like a dwarf, with a large wen upon his 
neck, and always carrying a broom in his hand 
— was the domestic of the place. 

The habitues entered by the gateway of the 
court-yard ; the public entered by the shop. 

What was this shop? 

In the high wall, facing the street, and to the 
right of the entrance to the court-yard, was a 
square opening, serving at once as a door and a 
window. It had a shutter and a frame — the 
only shutter in all the house which had hinges 
and bolts. Behind this square aperture, which 
was open to the street, was a little room, a com- 
partment obtained by curtailing the sleeping 
shed in the court-yard. Over the door, passers- 
by read the inscription in charcoal, “ Curiosities 
sold here.” On three boards, forming the shop 
front, were several pots without ears, a Chinese 
parasol made of gold-beaters’ skin, and orna- 
mented with figures, torn here and there, and 
impossible to open or shut ; fragments of iron, 
and shapeless pieces of old pottery, and dilapi- 
dated hats and bonnets; three or four shells, 
some packets of old bone and metal buttons, a 
tobacco-box with a portrait of Marie- Antoinette, 
and a dog’s-eared volume of Boisbertrand’s Al- 
gebra. Such was the stock of the shop ; this 
assortment completed the “curiosities.” The 
shop communicated by a back door with the yard 
in which was the well. It was furnished with a 
table and a stool. The woman with a wooden 
leg presided at the counter. 


VII. 

NOCTURNAL BUYERS AND MYSTERIOUS SELLERS. 

Clubin had been absent from the Jean Au- 
berge all the evening of Tuesday. On the 
Wednesday night he was absent again. 

In the dusk of that evening, two strangers 
penetrated into the mazes of the ruelle Coutan- 
chez. They stopped in front of the Jacressade. 
One of them knocked at the window ; the door 
of the shop opened, and they entered. The 
woman with the wooden leg met them with the 
smile which she reserved for respectable citizens. 
There was a candle on the table. 

The strangers were, in fact, respectable citi- 
zens. The one who had knocked said, “ Good- 
day, mistress. I have come for that affair.” 

The woman with the wooden leg smiled again, 
and went out by the back door leading to the 
court-yard, and where the well was. A moment 
afterwards the back door was opened again, and 
a man stood in the doorway. He wore a cap and 
a blouse. It was easy to see the shape of some- 


51 

thing under his blouse. lie had bits of old 
straw in his clothes, and looked as if he had just 
been aroused from sleep. 

He advanced and exchanged glances with the 
strangers. The man in the blouse looked be- 
wildered, but cunning; he said, 

“You are the gunsmith?” 

The one who had tapped at the window re- 
plied, “Yes; you are the man from Paris?” 

“ Known as Redskin. Yes.” 

“ Show me the thing.” 

The man took from under his blouse a weap- 
on extremely rare at that period in Europe. It 
was a revolver. 

The weapon was new and bright. The two 
strangers examined it. The one who seemed 
to know the house, and whom the man in the 
blouse had called “the gunsmith,” tried the 
mechanism. He passed the weapon to the oth- 
er, who appeared less at home there, and kept 
his back turned to the light. 

The gunsmith continued, 

“ How much?” 

The man in the blouse replied, 

“ I have just brought it from America. Some 
people bring monkeys, parrots, and other anL- 
mals, as if the French people were savages. For 
myself, I brought this. It is a useful invention.” 

“How much?” inquired the gunsmith again. 

“It is a pistol which turns and turns.” 

“How much?” 

“Bang! the first fire. Bang! the second 
fire. Bang! the third fire. What a hailstorm 
of bullets! That will do some execution.” 

“The price?” 

“There are six barrels.” 

“Well, well, what do you want for it?” 

“ Six barrels ; that is six Louis.” 

“Will you take five?” 

“Impossible. One Louis a ball. That is 
the price.” 

“Come, let us do business together. Be 
reasonable.” 

“I have named a fair price. Examine the 
weapon, Mr. Gunsmith.” 

“I have examined it.” 

“The barrel twists and turns like Talleyrand 
himself. The weapon ought to be mentioned 
in the ‘ dictionary of weathercocks.’ It is a 
gem.” 

“I have looked at it.” 

“The barrels are of Spanish make.” 

“ I see they are ” 

“They are mottled. This is how this mot- 
tling is done. They empty into a forge the 
basket of a collector of old iron. They fill it 
full of these old scraps, with old nails, and 
broken horseshoes swept out of farriers’ shops.” 

“ And old sickle-blades.” 

“I was going to say so, Mr. Gunsmith. 
They apply to all this rubbish a good sweating 
heat, and this makes a magnificent material for 
gun-barrels.” 

“Yes; but it may have cracks, flaws, or 
crosses.” 

“True ; but they remedy the crosses by little 


52 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


twists, and avoid the risk of doublings by beat- 
ing hard. They bring their mass of iron under 
the great hammer; give it two more good 
sweating heats. If the iron has been heated 
too much, they re-temper it with dull heats 
and lighter hammers. And then they take out 
their stuff and roll it well ; and with this iron 
they manufacture you a weapon like this.” 

“You are in the trade, I suppose?” 

“I am of all trades.” 

“The barrels are pale coloured.” 

‘ ‘ That’s the beauty of them, Mr. Gunsmith. 
The tint is obtained with antimony.” 

“It is settled, then, that we give you five 
Louis?” 

“ Allow me to observe that I had the honour 
of saying six.” 

The gunsmith lowered his voice. 

“ Hark you, master. Take advantage of the 
opportunity. Get rid of this thing. A weapon 
of this kind is of no use to a man like you It 
will make you remarked.” 

“ It is very true,” said the Parisian “ It is 
rather conspicuous. It is more suited to a 
gentleman.” 

“Will you take five Louis?” 

“ No ; six. One for every shot.” 

“ Come, six Napoleons.” 

“I will have six Louis.” 

“You are not a Bonapartist, then. You 
prefer a Louis to a Napoleon.” 

The Parisian nick-named “Redskin” smiled. 

“A Napoleon is greater,” said he, “but a 
Louis is worth more.” 

“ Six Napoleons.” 

“ Six Louis.” 

“ Six Louis. It makes a difference to me 
of four-and-twenty francs.” 

“The bargain is off in that case.” 

“ Good ; I keep the toy.” 

“Keep it.” 

“Beating me down! a good idea! It shall 
never be said that I got rid like that of a won- 
derful specimen of ingenuity.” 

“Good-night, then.” 

“ It marks a whole stage in the progress of 
making pistols, which the Chesapeake Indians 
call Nortay-u-Hah.” 

“Five Louis, ready money. Why, it is a 
handful of gold.” 

“ ‘ Nortay-u-Hah ,' that signifies ‘short gun,’ 
A good many people don’t know that.” 

“Will you take five Louis, and just a bit of 
silver?” 

“I said six, master.” 

The man who kept his back to the candle, 
and who had not yet spoken, was spending his 
time during the dialogue in turning and testing 
the mechanism of the pistol. He approached 
the armourer’s ear and whispered, 

“ Is it a good weapon ?” 

“ Excellent.” 

“ I will give the six Louis.” 

Five minutes afterwards, while the Parisian, 
nick-named “Redskin,” was depositing the six 
Louis which he had just received in a secret 


slit under the breast of his blouse, the armourei 
and his companion, carrying the revolver in his 
trowsers pocket, stepped out into the straggling 
street. 


VIII. 

a “cannon” off the red ball and the 

BLACK. 

On the morrow, which was a Thursday, a 
tragic circumstance occurred at a short dis- 
tance from St. Malo, near the peak of the “De- 
collet,” a spot where the cliff is high and the 
sea deep. 

A line of rocks in the form of the top of a 
lance, and connecting themselves with the land 
by a narrow isthmus, stretch out there into the 
water, ending abruptly with a large peak-shaped 
breaker. Nothing is commoner in the archi- 
tecture of the sea. In attempting from the 
shore to reach the plateau of the peaked rock, 
it w r as necessary to follow an inclined plane, 
the ascent of which was here and there some- 
what steep. 

It was upon a plateau of this kind, towards 
four o’clock in the afternoon, that a man was 
standing, enveloped in a large military cape, 
and armed ; a fact easy to be perceived from 
certain straight and angular folds in his mantle. 
The summit on which this man was resting was 
a rather extensive platform, dotted with large 
masses of rock, like enormous paving- stones, 
leaving between them narrow passages. This 
platform, on which a kind of thick, short grass 
grew here and there, came to an end on the 
sea side in an open space, leading to a perpen- 
dicular escarpment. The escarpment, rising 
about sixty feet above the level of the sea, 
seemed cut down by the aid of a plumb-line. 
Its left angle, however, was broken away, and 
formed one of those natural staircases common 
to granite cliffs worn by the sea, the steps of 
which are somewhat inconvenient, requiring 
sometimes the strides of a giant or the leaps 
of an acrobat. These stages of rock descended 
perpendicularly to the sea, where they were 
lost. It was a break-neck place. However, 
in case of absolute necessity, a man might suc- 
ceed in embarking there, under the very wall 
of the cliff. 

A breeze was sweeping the sea. The man, 
wrapped in his cape and standing firm, with 
left hand grasping his right shoulder, closed 
one eye, and applied the other to a telescope. 
He seemed absorbed in anxious scrutiny. He 
had approached the edge of the escarpment, 
and stood there motionless, his gaze immovably 
fixed on the horizon. The tide was high ; the 
waves were beating below against the foot of 
the cliffs. 

The object which the stranger was observing 
was a vessel in the offing, and which was ma- 
noeuvering in a strange manner. The vessel, 
which had hardly left, the port of St. Malo an 
hour, had stopped behind the Banquetiers . It 


53 


THE TOILERS 

had not cast anchor, perhaps because the bot- 
tom would only have permitted it to bear to 
leeward on the edge of the cable, and because 
the ship would have strained her anchor under 
the cutwater. Her captain had contented him- 
self with lying-to. 

The stranger, who was a coast-guavdman, as 
was apparent from his uniform cape, watched 
all the movements of the three-master, and 
seemed to note them mentally. The vessel was 
lying-to, a little off the wind, which was indi- 
cated by the backing of the small topsail, and 
the bellying of the main -topsail. He had 
squared the mizen, and set the topmast as close 
as possible, and in such a manner as to work 
the sails against each other, and to make little 
way either on or off shore. He evidently did 
not care to expose himself much to the wind, for 
he kept the small mizen topsail perpendicularly 
to the keel. In this way, coming crossway on, 
he did not drift at the utmost more than half 
a league an hour. 

It was still broad daylight, particularly on 
the open sea, and on the heights of the cliff. 
The shores below were becoming dark. 

The ccast-guardman, still engaged in his 
duty, and carefully scanning the offing, had not 
thought of observing the rocks at his side and 
at his feet. Ho turned his back towards the 
difficult sort of causeway which formed the 
communication between his resting-place and 
the shore. He did not, therefore, remark that 
something was moving in that direction. Be- 
hind a fragment of rock, among the steps of that 
causeway, something like the figure of a man 
had been concealed, according to all appear- 
ances, since the arrival of the coast-guardman. 
From time to time a head issued from the 
shadow behind the rock ; looked up and watch- 
ed the watcher. The head, surmounted by a 
wide-brimmed American hat, was that of the 
Quaker-looking man, who, ten days before, was 
talking among the stones of the Petit-Bey to 
Captain Zuela. 

Suddenly, the curiosity of the coast-guard- 
man seemed to be still more strongly awakened. 
He polished the glass of his telescope quickly 
with his sleeve, and brought it to bear closely 
upon the three-master. 

A little black spot seemed to detach itself 
from her side. 

The black spot, looking like a small insect 
upon the water, was a boat. 

The boat seemed to be making for the shore. 
It was manned by several sailors, who were 
pulling vigorously. 

She pulled crosswise by little and little, and 
appeared to be approaching the Pointe du 
Decolle. 

The gaze of the coast-guardman seemed to 
have reached its most intense point. No move- 
ment of the boat escaped it. He had approach- 
ed nearer still to the verge of the rock. 

At that instant a man of large stature ap- 
peared on one of the rocks behind him. It was 
the Quaker. The officer did not see him. 


OF THE SEA. 

The man paused an instant, his arms at his 
sides, but with his fists doubled ; and with the 
eye of a hunter, watching for his prey, he ob- 
served the back of the officer. 

Four steps only separated them. Ho put 
one foot forward, then stopped ; took a second 
step, and stopped again. He made no move- 
ments except the act of walking: all the rest 
of his body was motionless as a statue. His 
foot fell upon the tufts of grass without noise. 
He made a third step, and paused again. He 
was almost within reach of the coast-guard, 
who stood there still motionless with his tele- 
scope. The man brought his two closed fists 
to a level with his collar-bone, then struck out 
his arms sharply, and his two fists, as,if thrown 
from a sling, struck the coast-guardman on the 
two shoulders. The shock was decisive. The 
man had not the time to utter a crv. He fell 
head first from the height of the rock into the 
sea. His boots appeared in the air about the 
time occupied by a flash of lightning. It was 
like the fall of a stone in the sea, which instant- 
ly closed over him. 

Two or three circles widened out upon the 
dark water. 

Nothing remained but the telescope, which 
had dropped from the hands of the man, and 
lay upon the turf. 

The Quaker leaned over the edge of the es- 
carpment a moment, watched the circles vanish- 
ing on the water, waited a few moments, and 
then rose again, singing, in a low voice, 

“ The captain of police is dead, 

Through having lost his life.” 

He knelt down a second time. Nothing re- 
appeared. Only at the spot where the officer 
had been engulphed, he observed on the surface 
of the water a sort of dark spot, which became 
diffused with the gentle lapping of the waves. 
It seemed probable that the coast-guardman 
had fractured his skull against some rock under 
water, and that his blood caused the spot in 
the foam. The Quaker, while considering the 
meaning of this spot, began to sing again, 

u Not very long before he died, 

The luckless man was still alive.” 

He did not finish his song. 

He heard an extremely soft voice behind him, 
which said : 

“Is that you, Rantaine? Good-day. You 
have just killed a man !” 

He turned. About fifteen paces behind him, 
in one of the passages between the rocks, stood 
a little man holding a revolver in his hand. 

The Quaker answered, 

“As you see. Good-day, Sieur Clubin.” 

The little man started. 

“You know me ?” 

“ You knew mfc very well,” replied Rantaine. 

Meanwhile they could hear a sound of oars 
on the sea. It was the approach of the beat 
which the officer had observed. 

Sieur Clubin said in a low tone, as if speak- 
ing to himself, 

“It was done quickly.” 


54 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


“What can I do to oblige you?” asked Ran- 
taine. 

“ Oh, a trifling matter ! It is very nearly ten 
years since I saw you. You must have been 
doing well. How are you ?” 

“Well enough,” answered Rantaine. “ How 
are you?” 

“Very well,” replied Clubin. 

Rantaine advanced a step towards Clubin. 

A little sharp click caught his ear. It was 
Sieur Clubin who was cocking his revolver. 

“ Rantaine, there are about fifteen paces be- 
tween us. It is a nice distance. Remain where 
you are.” 

“Very well,” said Rantaine. “What do 
you want with me ?” 

“I! Oh, I have come to have a chat with 
you.” 

Rantaine did not offer to move again. Sieur 
Clubin continued : 

“You assassinated a coast-guard man just 
now.” 

Rantaine lifted the flap of his hat, and re- 
plied, 

“You have already done me the honour to 
mention it.” 

“ Exactly ; but in terms less precise. I said 
a man : I say now, a coast-guardman. The man 
Avore the number 619. He was the father of a 
family ; leaves a wife and five children.” 

“That is no doubt correct,” said Rantaine. 

There Avas a momentary pause. 

“ They are picked men — those coast-guard 
people,” continued Clubin; “almost all old 
sailors.” 

“I haA'e remarked,” said Rantaine, “that 
people generally do leave a Avife and five chil- 
dren.” 

Sieur Clubin continued : 

“Guess hoAv much this revolver cost me?” 

“It is a pretty tool,” said Rantaine. 

“What do you guess it at?” 

“I^should guess it at a good deal.” 

“I| cost me one hundred and forty-four 
francs.” 

“You must bav T e bought that,” said Rantaine, 
“at the shop in the ruelle Coutanchez .” 

Clubin continued : 

“ He did not cry out. The fall stopped his 
voice, no doubt.” 

“Sieur Clubin, there will be a breeze to- 
night.” 

“ I am the only one in the secret.” 

“ Do you still stay at the Jean Auberge ?” 

“Yes ; you are not badly served there.” 

“I remember getting some excellent sour- 
ly rout there.” 

“You must be exceedingly strong, Rantaine. 
What shoulders you have ! I should be sorry 
to get a tap from you. I, on' the other hand, 
when I came into the world, looked so spare 
and sickly that they despaired of rearing me.” 

“They succeeded though, Avhich Avas lucky.” 

“Yes; I still stay at the Jean Auberge.” 

“Do you knoAv, Sieur Clubin, hoAv I recog- 
nized you ? It was from your having recognized 


me. I said to myself, there is nobody like Sieur 
Clubin for that.” 

And he advanced a step. 

“ Stand back Avhere you were, Rantaine.” 

Rantaine fell back, and said to himself, 

“A fellow becomes like a child before one 
of those Aveapons.” 

Sieur Clubin continued : 

“ The position of affairs is this : we have on 
our right, in the direction of St. Enogat, at 
about three hundred paces from here, another 
coast-guard man — his number is 618 — who is 
still alive ; and on our left, in the direction of 
Saint Lunaire, a customs station. That makes 
seA'en armed men who could be here, if neces- 
sary, in fh r e minutes. The rock would be sur- 
rounded ; the Avay hither guarded. Impossible 
to elude them. There is a corpse at the foot 
of this rock.” 

Rantaine took a side-Avay glance at the re- 
volver. 

“As you say, Rantaine, it is a pretty tool. 
Perhaps it is only loaded with poAvder; but 
Avhat does that matter? A report A\ r ould be 
enough to bring an armed force — and I haA*e 
six barrels here.” 

The measured sound of the oars became very 
distinct. The boat Avas not far off. 

The tall man regarded the little man curious- 
ly. Sieur Clubin spoke in a A’oice more and 
more soft and subdued. 

“Rantaine, the men in the boat Avhich is 
coming, knoAving Avhat you did here just noAv, 
would lend a hand and help to arrest you. You 
are to pay Captain Zuela ten thousand franc3 
for your passage. You would have made a bet- 
ter bargain, by the Avay, Avith the smugglers of 
Pleinmont ; but they Avould only have taken 
you to England ; and, besides, you cannot risk 
going to Guernsey, Avhere they have the pleas- 
ure of knowing you. To return, then, to the 
position of affairs — if I fire, you are arrested. 
You are to pay Zuela for your passage ten thou- 
sand francs. You have already paid him five 
thousand in ad\ r ance. Zuela would keep the 
fiA r e thousand and be gone. These are the facts. 
Rantaine, you haA’e managed your masquerad- 
ing very well. That hat — that queer coat — 
and those gaiters make a Avonderful change. 
You forgot the spectacles. You did right to let 
your Avhiskers groAv.” 

Rantaine smiled spasmodically. Clubin con- 
tinued : 

“Rantaine, you haA’e on a pair of American 
breeches, Avith a double fob. In one side you 
keep your Avatcb. Take care of it.” 

“Thank you, Sieur Clubin.” 

“ In the other is a little box made of wrought 
iron, which opens and shuts with a spring: It 
is an old sailor’s tobacco-box. Take it out of 
your pocket, and throw it over to me.” 

“Why! this is robbery.” 

“You are at liberty to call the coast-guard- 
man.” 

And Clubin fixed his eve on Rantaine. 

“Stay, Mess Clubin,” said Rantaine, making 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


55 


A slight forward movement, and holding out his 
open hand. 

The title “ Mess” was a delicate flattery. 

“ Stay where you are, Rantaine.” 

“ Mess Clubin, let us come to terms. I offer 
you half.” 

Clubin crossed his arms, still showing the 
barrels of his revolver. 

“ Rantaine, what do you take me for ? I am 
an honest man.” 

And he added, after a pause, 

“I must have the whole.” 

Rantaine muttered between his teeth, “ This 
fellow’s of a stern sort.” 

The eye of Clubin lighted up, his voice be- 
came clear and sharp as steel. He cried, 

“ I see that you are labouring under a mis- 
take. Robbery is your name, not mine. My 
name is Restitution. Hark you, Rantaine! 
Ten years ago you left Guernsey one night, 
taking with you the cash-box of a certain part- 
nership concern, containing fifty thousand francs 
which belonged to you, but forgetting to leave 
behind you fifty thousand francs which were 
the property of another. Those fifty thousand 
francs, the money of your partner, the excellent 
and worthy Mess Lethierry, make at present, 
at compound interest, calculated for ten years, 
eighty thousand six hundred and sixty -six 
francs. You went into a money-changer’s yes- 
terday. I'll give you his name — Rebuchet, in 
St. Vincent Street. You counted out to him 
seventy-six thousand francs in French bank- 
notes ; in exchange for which he gave you three 
notes of the Bank of England for one thousand 
pounds sterling each, plus the exchange. You 
put these bank-notes in the iron tobacco-box, 
and the iron tobacco-box into your double fob 
on the right-hand side. On the part of Mess 
Lethierry, I shall be content with that. I start 
to-morrow for Guernsey, and intend to hand it 
to him. Rantaine, the three-master lying-to 
out yonder is the “Tamaulipas.” You have 
had your luggage put aboard there with the 
other things belonging to the crew. You want 
to leave France. You have your reasons. You 
are going to Arequipa. The boat is coming to 
fetch you. You are awaiting it. It is at hand. 
You can hear it. It depends on me whether 
you go or stay. No more words. Fling me 
the tobacco-box.” 

Rantaine dipped his hand in the fob, drew 
out a little box, and threw it to Clubin. It was 
the iron tobacco-box. It fell and rolled at Clu- 
bin’s feet. 

Clubin knelt without lowering his gaze ; felt 
about for the box with his left hand, keeping 
all the while his eyes and the six barrels of the 
revolver fixed upon Rantaine. Then he cried, 

“ Turn your back, my friend.” 

Rantaine turned his back. 

Sieur Clubin put the revolver under one arm, 
and touched the spring of the tobacco-box. The 
lid flew open. 

It contained four bank-notes; three of a 
thousand pounds, and one of ten pounds. 


He folded up the three bank-notes of a thou- 
sand pounds each, replaced them in the iron 
tobacco-box, shut the lid again, and put it in 
his pocket. 

Then he picked up a stone, wrapped it in 
the ten-pound note, and said, 

“ You may turn round again.” 

Rantaine turned. 

Sieur Clubin continued : 

“I told you I would be contented with 
three thousand francs. Here, I return you ten 
pounds.” 

And he threw to Rantaine the note enfolding 
the stone. 

Rantaine, with a movement of his foot, sent 
the bank-note and the stone into the sea. 

“As you please,” said Clubin. “You must 
be rich. I am satisfied.” 

The noise of oars, which had been continu- 
ally drawing nearer during the dialogue^ ceased. 
They knew by this that the boat had arrived at 
the base of the cliff. 

“Your vehicle w r aits below. You can go, 
Rantaine.” 

Rantaine advanced towards the steps of stones, 
and rapidly disappeared. 

Clubin moved cautiously towards the edge of 
the escarpment, and watched him descending. 

The boat had stopped near the last stage of 
the rocks, at the very spot where the coast- 
guardman had fallen. 

Still observing Rantaine stepping from stone 
to stone, Clubin muttered, 

‘ ‘ A gdod number, 619. He thought himself 
alone. Rantaine thought there were only two 
there. I only knew that there were three.” 

He perceived at his feet the telescope which 
had dropped from the hands of the coast-guard- 
man. 

The sound of oars was heard again. Ran- 
taine had stepped into the boat, and the rowers 
had pushed< out to sea. 

When Rantaine was safely in the boat, and 
the cliff was beginning to recede from his eyes, 
he arose again sharply. His features were con- 
vulsed with rage; he clenched his fist, and 
cried, 

“ Ha ! he is the devil himself ; a villain !” 

A few seconds later, Clubin, from the top of 
the rock, while bringing his telescope to bear 
upon the boat, heard distinctly the following 
words articulated by a loud voice, and mingling 
with the noise of the sea : 

“ Sieur Clubin, you’re an honest man ; but 
you will not be offended if I write to Lethierry 
to acquaint him with this matter; and we have 
here in the boat a sailor from Guernsey, who is 
one of the crew of the ‘Tamaulipas;’ his name 
is* Ahier-Tostevin, and he will return to St. 
Malo on Zuela’s next voyage, to bear testimo- 
ny to the fact of my having returned to you, on 
Mess Lethierry’s account, the sum of three thou- 
sand pounds sterling.” 

It was Rantaine’s voice. 

Clubin rarely did things by halves. Motion- 
less as the coast-guardman had been, and in the 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


56 

exact same place, his eye still at the telescope, 
lie did not lose sight of the boat for one mo- 
ment. He saw it growing less amidst the waves ; 
watched it disappear and reappear, and approach 
the vessel, which was lying-to ; and finally he 
recognised the tall figure of Rantaine on the 
deck of the “ Tamaulipas.” 

When the boat was raised, and slung again 
to the davits, the “ Tamaulipas” was in motion 
once more. The land-breeze was fresh, and 
she spread all her sails. Clubin’s glass contin- 
ued fixed upon her outline growing more and 
more indistinct, until half an hour later, when 
the “Tamaulipas” had become only a dark 
shape upon the horizon, growing smaller and 
smaller against the pale twilight in the sky. 


IX. 

USEFUL INFORMATION FOR PERSONS WHO EX- 
PECT OR FEAR THE ARRIVAL OF LETTERS 

FROM BEYOND SEA. 

On that evening Sieur Clubin returned late. 

One of the causes of his delay was, that be- 
fore going to his inn, he had paid a visit to the 
Dinan gate of the town, a place where there 
were several wine-shops. In one of these wine- 
shops, where he was not known, he had bought 
a bottle of brandy, which he placed in the pock- 
et of his overcoat, as if he desired to conceal it. 
Then, as the Durande was to start on the fol- 
lowing morning, he had taken a turn aboard to 
satisfy himself that everything was in order. 

When Sieur Clubin returned to the Jean Au- 
berge, there was no one left in the lower room 
except the old sea-captain, M. Gertrais-Gabour- 
reau, who was drinking a jug of ale and smo- 
king his pipe. 

M. Gertrais-Gabourreau saluted Sieur Clubin 
between a whiff and a draught of ale. 

“ How d’ye do, Captain Clubin ?” 

“ Good evening, Captain Gertrais.” 

“ Well, the ‘Tamaulipas’ is gone.” 

“Ah!” said Clubin, “I did not observe.” 

Captain Gertrais - Gabourreau expectorated, 
and said, 

“Zuela has decamped.” 

“ When was that ?” 

“This evening.” 

“Where. is he gone?” 

“To the devil.” 

“No doubt ; but where?” 

“To Arequipa.” 

“I knew nothing of it,” said Clubin. 

He added, 

“lam going to bed.” 

He lighted his candle, walked towards the 
door, and returned. 

“ Have you ever been at Arequipa, Cap- 
tain?” 

“ Yes ; some years ago.” 

“Where do they touch on that voyage?” 

“A little every where; but the ‘Tamauli- 
pas’ will touch nowhere ?” 


M. Gertrais-Gabourreau emptied his pipe 
upon the corner of a plate, and continued : 

“You know the lugger called the ‘Trojan 
Horse,’ and that fine three-master, the ‘Trente- 
mouzin,’ which are gone to Cardiff. I was 
against their sailing on account of the weather. 
They have returned in a fine state. The lugger 
was laden with turpentine ; she sprang aleak, 
and in working the pumps they pumped up with 
the water all her cargo. As to the three-mast- 
er, she has suffered most above water. Her 
cutwater, her headrail, the stock of her larboard 
anchor are broken. Her standing jibboom is 
gone clean by the cap. As for the jib-shrouds 
and bobstays, go and see what they look like. 
The mizenmast is not injured, but has had a 
severe shock. All the iron of the bowsprit has 
given way ; and it is an extraordinary fact, that 
though the bowsprit itself is not scratched, it is 
completely stripped. The larboard bow of the 
vessel is stove in a good three feet square. 
This is what comes of not taking advice.” 

Clubin had placed the candle on the table, 
and had begun to readjust a row of pins which 
he kept in the collar of his overcoat. He con- 
tinued : 

“Didn’t you say, Captain, that the ‘Tamau- 
lipas’ would not touch anywhere?” 

“ Yes ; she goes direct to Chili.” 

“In that case, she can send no news of her- 
self on the voyage.” 

“I beg your pardon, Captain Clubin. In 
the first place, she can send any letters by ves- 
sels she may meet sailing for Europe.” 

“That is true.” 

“ Then there is the ocean letter-box.” 

“What do you mean by the ocean letter- 
box?” 

“Don’t you know what that is, Captain Clu- 
bin?” 

“No.” 

“When you pass the Straits of Magellan — ” 

“Well.” 

‘ ‘ Snow all around you ; always bad weather ; 
ugly down-easters, and bad seas.” 

“Well.” 

“ When you have doubled Cape Mon- 
mouth — ■” 

“Well, what next?” 

“Then you double Cape Valentine.” 

“And then ?” 

“Why, then you double Cape Isidore.” 

“ And afterwards ?” 

“You double Point Anne.” 

“Good. But what is it you call the ocean 
letter-box ?” 

“ We are coming to that. Mountains on the 
right, mountains on the left. Penguins and 
stormy petrels all about. A terrible place. 
Ah ! by Jove, what a howling and what cracks 
you get there ! The hurricane wants no help. 
That’s the place for holding on to the sheet*' 
rails— for reefing topsails. That's where you 
take in the mainsail, and fly the jibsail ; or take 
in the jibsail and try the storm-jib. Gusts upon 
gusts ! And then, sometimes four, five, or six 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


57 


days of cap stche. Often only a rag of canvas 
left. What a dance ! Squalls enough to make 
a three-master skip like a flea. I saw once a 
cabin-boy hanging on to the jibboom of an En- 
glish brig, ‘The True Blue,’ knocked, jibboom 
and all, to ten thousand nothings. Fellows are 
swept into the air there like butterflies. I saw 
the second mate of the ‘ Revenue,’ a pretty 
schooner, knocked from under the fore cross- 
tree, and killed dead. I have had my sheer- 
rails smashed, and come out with all my sails 
in ribbons. Frigates of fifty guns make water 
like wicker baskets. And the damnable coast ! 
Nothing can be imagined more dangerous. 
Rocks all jagged edged. You come, by-and- 
by, to Port Famine. There it’s worse and 
worse. The worst seas I ever saw in my life. 
The devil’s own latitudes. All of a sudden 
you spv the words, painted in red, ‘Post Of- 
fice.’” 

“ What do you mean, Captain Gertrais ?” 

“I mean, Captain Clubin, that immediately 
after doubling Point Anne you see, on a rock, 
a hundred feet high, a great post with a barrel 
suspended to the top. This barrel is the letter- 
box. The English sailors must needs go and 
write up there ‘Post Office.’ What had they to 
do with it ? It is the ocean post-office. It 
isn’t the property of that worthy gentleman, the 
King of England. The box is common to all. 
It belongs to every flag. Post Office: there’s a 
crack-jaw word for you. It produces an effect 
on me as if the devil had suddenly offered me a 
cup of tea. I will tell you now how the postal 
arrangements are carried out. Every vessel 
which passes sends to the post a boat with de- 
spatches. A vessel coming from the Atlantic, 
for instance, sends there its letters for Europe ; 
and a ship coming from the Pacific, its letters 
for New Zealand or California. The officer in 
command of the boat puts his packet into the 
barrel, and takes away any packet he finds 
there. You take charge of these letters, and 
the ship which comes after you takes charge of 


yours. As ships are always going to and fro, 
the continent whence you come is that to which 
I am going. I carry your letters; you carry 
mine. The barrel is made fast to the post with 
a chain. And it rains, snows, and hails! A 
pretty sea. The imps of Satan fly about on 
every side. The ‘Tamaulipas’ will pass there. 
The barrel has a good lid with a hinge, but no 
padlock. You see, a fellow can write to his 
friends this way. The letters come safely.” 

“It is very curious,” muttered Clubin, 
thoughtfully. 

Captain Gertrais-Gabourreau returned to his 
bottle of ale. 

“If that vagabond Zuela should write, the 
scoundrel puts his scrawl into the barrel at 
Magellan, and in four months I have his letter.” 

“Well, Captain Clubin, do you start to-mor- 
row ?” 

Clubin, absorbed in a sort of somnambulism, 
did not notice the question, and Captain Ger- 
trais repeated it. 

Clubin wmkc up. 

“ Of course, Captain Gertrais. It is my day. 
I must start to-morrow morning.” 

“If it was my case, I shouldn’t, Captain Clu- 
bin. The hair of the dog’s coat feels damp. 
For two nights past, the sea-birds have been fly- 
ing wildly round the lanthorn of the lighthouse. 
A bad sign. I have a storm-glass, too, which 
gives me a wurning. The moon is at her sec- 
ond quarter; it is the maximum of humidity. 
I noticed to-day some pimpernels with their 
leaves shut, and a field of clover with its stalks 
all stiff. The worms come out of the ground 
to-day ; the flies sting ; the bees keep close to 
their hives ; the sparrows chatter together. You 
can hear the sound of bells from far off. I 
heard to-night the Angelus at St. Lunaire. And 
then the sun set angry. There will be a good 
fog to-morrow, mark my words. I don’t ad- 
vise you to put to sea. I dread the fog a good 
deal more than a hurricane. It’s a nasty neiglr 
bour that.” 




BOOK VI. 


THE DRUNKEN STEERSMAN AND THE SOBER CAPTAIN. 


I. 

THE DOUVRES. 

At about five leagues out, in the open sea, 
to the south of Guernsey, opposite Pleinmont 
Point, and between the Channel Islands and St. 
Malo, there is a group of rocks, called the Dou- 
* vres. The spot is dangerous. 

This term Douvres, applied to rocks and cliffs, 
is very common. There is, for example, near 
the Cotes du Not'd, a Douvre, on which a light- 
house is now being constructed ; a dangerous 
reef, but one which must not be confounded with 
the rock above referred to. 


The nearest point on the French coast to the 
Douvres is Cape Brehat. The Douvres are a 
little further from the coast of France than from 
the nearest of the Channel Islands. The dis- 
tance from Jersey may be pretty nearly meas- 
ured by the long diagonal of Jersey. If the 
Island of Jersey could be turned round upon 
Corbiere, as upon a hinge, St. Catherine’s Point 
would almost touch the Douvres, at a distance 
of more than four leagues. 

In these civilized regions the wildest rocks 
are rarely desert places. Smugglers are met 
with at Hagot, custom-house men at Binic, 
Celts at Brehat, oyster-dredgers at Cancale, 


58 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


rabbit-shooters at Cesambre or Caesar’s Island, 
crab-gatherers at Brecqhou, trawlers at the Min- 
quiers, dredgers at Ecrehou, but no one is ever 
seen upon the Douvres. 

The sea-birds alone make their home there. 

No spot in the ocean is more dreaded. The 
Casquets, where it is said the “Blanche Ncf” 
was lost; the Bank of Calvado ; the Needles in 
the Isle of Wight; the Ronesse, which makes 
the coast of Beaulieu so dangerous; the sunken 
reefs at Preel, which block the entrance to Mer- 
quel, and which necessitates the red-painted 
beacon in twenty fathoms of water, the treach- 
erous approaches to Etables and Plouha ; the 
two Druids of granite to the south of Guernsey, 
the Old Anderlo and the Little Anderlo, the 
Corbiere, the Hanways, the Isle of Ras, associa- 
ted with terror in the proverb : 

“ Si jamais tu passes le Ras , 

Si tu ne views , tu tremblera 

the Mortes-Femmes, the Deroute between Guern- 
sey and Jersey, the Hardent between the Min- 
quiers and Chousey, the Mauvais Cheval be- 
tween Bouley Bay and Barneville, have not so 
evil a reputation. It would be preferable to 
have to encounter all these dangers, one after 
the other, than the Douvres once. 

In all that perilous sea of the Channel, which 
is the Egean of the West, the Douvres have no 
equal in their terrors, except the Paternoster 
between Guernsey and Sark. 

From the Paternoster, however, it is possible 
to give a signal — a ship in distress there may 
obtain succour. To the north rises Discard or 
D’lcare Point, and to the south Grosnez. From 
the Douvres you can see nothing. 

Its associations are the storm, the cloud, the 
wild sea, the desolate waste, the uninhabited 
coast. The blocks of granite are hideous and 
enormous — everywhere perpendicular wall — the 
severe inhospitality of the abyss. 

It is the open sea; the water about is very 
deep. A rock completely isolated like the Dou- 
vres attracts and shelters creatures which shun 
the haunts of men. It is a sort of vast subma- 
rine cave of fossil coral branches — a drowned 
labyrinth. There, at a depth to which divers 
would find it difficult to descend, are caverns, 
haunts, and dusky mazes, where monstrous crea- 
tures multiply and destroy each other. Huge 
crabs devour fish and are devoured in their turn. 
Hideous shapes of living things, not created to 
be seen by human eyes, wander in this twilight. 
Vague forms of antennae, tentacles, fins, open 
jaws, scales, and claws, float about there, quiv- 
ering, growing larger, or decomposing and 
perishing in the gloom, while horrible swarms 
of swimming things prowl about seeking their 
prey. 

To gaze into the depths of the sea is, in the 
imagination, like beholding the vast unknown, 
and from its most terrible point of view. The 
submarine gulf is analogous to the realm of 
night and dreams. There also is sleep, uncon- 
sciousness, or at least apparent unconsciousness, 
of creation. There, in the awful silence and 


darkness, the rude first forms of life, phantom- 
like, demoniacal, pursue their horrible instincts. 

Forty years ago, two rocks of singular form 
signalled the Douvres from afar to passers on 
the ocean. They were two vertical points, sharp 
and curved, their summits almost touching each 
other. They looked like the two tusks of an 
elephant rising out of the sea ; but they were 
tusks, high as tall towers, of an elephant huge 
as a mountain. These two natural towers, ris- 
ing out of the obscure home of marine monsters, 
only left a narrow passage between them, where 
the waves rushed through. This passage, tor- 
tuous and full of angles, resembled a straggling 
street between high walls. The two twin rocks 
are called the Douvres. There was the Great 
Douvre and the Little Douvre ; one was sixty 
feet high, the other forty. The ebb and flow of 
the tide had at last worn away part of the base 
of the towers, and a violent equinoctial gale on 
the 26th of October, 1859, overthrew one of 
them. The smaller one, which still remains, is 
worn and tottering. 

One of the most singular of the Douvres is a 
rock known as “The Man.” This still exists. 
Some fishermen in the last century visiting this 
spot found on the height of this rock a human 
body. By its side were a number of empty sea- 
shells. A sailor escaped from shipwreck had 
found a refuge there ; had lived some time upon 
rock limpets, and had died. Hence its name 
of “ The Man.” 

The solitudes of the sea are peculiarly dis- 
mal. The things which pass there seem to 
have no relation to the human race ; their ob- 
jects are unknown. Such is the isolation of 
the Douvres. All around, as far as eye can 
reach, spreads the vast and restless sea. 


II. 

AN UNEXPECTED FLASK OF BRANDT. 

On the Friday morning, the day after the 
departure of the “ Tamauiipas,” the Durande 
started again for Guernsey. 

She left St. Malo at nine o’clock. The 
weather was fine ; no haze. Old Captain Ger- 
trais-Gabourreau was evidently in his dotage. 

Sieur Clubin’s numerous occupations had de- 
cidedly been unfavourable to the collection of 
freight for the Durande. He had only taken 
aboard some packages of Parisian articles for 
the fancy shops of St, Peter’s Port ; three cases 
for the Guernsey hospital, one containing yel- 
low soap and long candles, and the other French 
shoe-leather for soles, and choice Cordovan 
skins. He brought back from his last cargo a 
case of crushed sugar and three chests of congou 
tea, which the French custom-house would not 
permit to pass. Sieur Clubin had embarked 
very few cattle; some bullocks only. These 
bullocks were in the hold loosely tethered. 

There were six passengers aboard ; a Guern- 
sey man, two inhabitants of St. Malo, dealers in 


THE TOILERS 

cattle ; a “ tourist” — a phrase already in vogue 
at this period — a Parisian citizen, probably trav- 
eling on commercial affairs, and an American, 
engaged in distributing Bibles. 

Without reckoning Clubin, the crew of the 
Durande amounted to seven men ; a helmsman, 
a stoker, a ship’s carpenter, and a cook — serving 
as sailors in case of need — two engineers, and a 
cabin-boy. One of the two engineers was also 
a practical mechanic. This man, a bold and 
intelligent Dutch negro, who had originally es- 
caped from the sugar plantations of Surinam, 
was named Imbrancam. The negro, Imbran- 
cam, understood and attended admirably to the 
engine. In the early days of the “Devil Boat,” 
his black face, appearing now and then at the 
top of the engine-room stairs, had contributed 
not a little to sustain its diabolical reputa- 
tion. 

The helmsman, a native of Guernsey, but of 
a family originally from Cotentin, bore the name 
of Tangrouille. The Tangrouilles were an old 
noble family. 

This was strictly true. The Channel Islands 
are like England, an aristocratic region. Castes 
exist there still. The castes have their peculiar 
ideas, which are, in fact, their protection. These 
notions of caste are every where similar ; in Hin- 
dostan, as in Germany, nobility is won by the 
sword, lost by soiling the hands with labour, but 
is preserved by idleness. To do nothing is to 
live nobly ; whoever abstains from work is hon- 
oured. A trade is fatal. In France, in old 
times, there was no exception to this rule, ex- 
cept in the case of glass manufacturers. Emp- 
tying bottles being then one of the glories of 
gentlemen, making them was probably, for that 
reason, not considered dishonourable. In the 
Channel archipelago, as in Great Britain, he 
who would remain noble must contrive to be 
rich. A working man can not possibly be a 
gentleman. If he has ever been one, he is so 
no longer. Yonder sailor, perhaps, descends 
from the Knights Bannerets, but is nothing but 
a sailor. Thirty years ago, a real Gorges, who 
would have had rights over the Seigniory of 
Gorges, confiscated by Philip Augustus, gather- 
ed sea-weed, naked-footed, in the sea. A Car- 
teret is a wagoner in Sark. There are at Jer- 
sey a draper, and at Guernsey a shoemaker, 
named Gruchy, who claim to be Gruchys, and 
cousins of the Marshal of Waterloo. The old 
registers of the Bishopric of Coutances make 
mention of a Seigniory of Tangroville, evident- 
ly from Tancarville, on the Lower Seine, which 
is identical with Montmorency. In the fifteenth 
century, Johan de Heroudeville, archer and etoffe 
of the Sire de Tangroville, bore behind him “ son 
corset et ses mitres liarnois .” In May, 1371, at 
Pontorson, at the review of Bertrand de Gues- 
clin, Monsieur de Tangroville rendered his hom- 
age as Knight Bachelor. In the Norman isl- 
ands, if a noble falls into poverty, he is soon 
eliminated from the order. A mere change of 
pronunciation is enough. Tangroville becomes 
Tangrouille: the thing is done. 


OF THE SEA. 59 

This had been the fate of the helmsman of 
the Durande. 

At the Bordage of St. Peter’s Port, there is a 
dealer in old iron, named Ingrouille, who is 
probably an Ingroville. Under Louis le Gros, 
the Ingrovilles possessed three parishes in the 
district of Yalognes. A certain Abbe Trigan 
has written an Ecclesiastical History of Nor- 
mandy. This chronicler Trigan was the cure 
of the Seigniory of Digoville. The Sire of Di- 
goville, if he had sunk to a lower grade, would 
have been called Digouille. 

Tangrouille, this probable Tancarville, and 
possible Montmorency, had an ancient noble 
quality, but a grave failing for a steersman — he 
got drunk occasionally. 

Sieur Clubin had obstinately determined to 
retain him. He answered for his conduct to 
Mess Lethierry. 

Tangrouille the helmsman never left the ves- 
tel ; he slept aboard. 

On the eve of their departure, when Sieur 
Clubin came at a late hour to inspect the vessel, 
Tangrouille was in his hammock asleep. 

In the night Tangrouille awoke. It was his 
nightly habit. Every drunkard who is not his 
own master has his secret hiding-place. Tan- 
grouille had his, which he called his store. The 
secret store of Tangrouille was in the hold. He 
had placed it there to put others off the scent. 
He thought it certain that his hiding-place was 
known only to himself. Captain Clubin, being 
a sober man himself, was strict. The little rum 
or gin which the helmsman could conceal from 
the vigilant eyes of the captain, he kept in re- 
serve in this mysterious corner of the hold, and 
nearly every night he had a stolen interview with 
the contents of this store. The surveillance was 
rigorous, the orgie was a poor one, and Tangrou- 
ille’s nightly excesses were generally confined to 
two or three furtive gulps. Sometimes it hap- 
pened that the store was empty. This night 
Tangrouille had found there an unexpected bot- 
tle of brandy. His joy was great, but his as- 
tonishment greater. From what cloud had this 
bottle fallen ? He could not remember when 
or how he had ever brought it into the ship. 
He soon consumed the whole of it, partly from 
motives of prudence, and partly from a fear 
that the brandy might be discovered and seized. 
The bottle he threw overboard. In the morn- 
ing, when he took the helm, Tangrouille exhib- 
ed a slight oscillation of the body. 

He steered, however, pretty nearly as usual. 

With regard to Clubin, he had gone, as the 
reader knows, to sleep at the Jean Auberge. 

Clubin always wore, under his shirt, a leath- 
ern travelling belt, in which he kept a reserve 
of twenty guineas: he took this belt off only at 
night. Inside the belt was his name, “Clu- 
bin,” written by himself on the rough leath- 
er, with thick lithographers’ ink, which is in- 
delible. 

On rising, just before his departure, he put 
into this girdle the iron box containing the sev- 
enty-five thousand francs in bank-notes ; then. 


60 


THE TOILERS OF TIIE SEA. 


as he was accustomed to do, he buckled the belt 
round his body. 


III. 

CONVERSATIONS INTERRUPTED. 

The Durande started pleasantly. The pas- 
sengers, as soon as their bags and portmanteaus 
were installed upon and under the benches, took 
that customary survey of the vessel which seems 
indispensable under the circumstances. Two of 
the passengers — the tourist and the Parisian — 
had never seen a steam vessel before, and from 
the moment the paddles began to revolve, they 
stood admiring the foam. Then they looked 
with wonderment at the smoke. Then they ex- 
amined, one by one, and almost piece by piece, 
upon the upper and lower deck, all those naval 
appliances — such as rings, grapnels, hooks, and 
bolts — which, with their nice precision and 
adaptation, form a kind of colossal bijouterie — a 
kind of iron jewellery gilded with rust by the 
weather. They walked round the little signal 
gun upon the upper deck. “ Chained up like a 
sporting dog, ” observed the tourist. “And cov- 
ered with a waterproof coat to prevent its taking 
cold,” added the Parisian. As they left the land 
further behind, they indulged in the customary 
observations upon the view of St. Malo. One 
passenger laid down the axiom that the approach 
to a place by sea is always deceptive ; and that 
at a league from the shore, for example, nothing 
could more resemble Ostend than Dunkirk. He 
completed his series of remarks on Dunkirk by 
the observation that one of its two floating lights, 
painted red, was called Ruytingen , and the other 
Mardyck. 

St. Malo, meanwhile, grew smaller in the dis- 
tance, and finally disappeared from view. 

The aspect of the sea was a vast calm. The 
furrow left in the water by the vessel, a long 
double line edged with foam, and stretching in 
a straight line behind them as far as the eye 
could see. 

A straight line drawn from St. Malo in France 
to Exeter in England would touch the island of 
Guernsey. The straight line at sea is not al- 
ways the one chosen. Steam vessels, however, 
have, to a certain extent, a power of following 
the direct course — denied to sailing ships. 

The wind, in co-operation with the sea, is a 
combination of forces. A ship is a combination 
of appliances. Forces are machines of infinite 
power. Machines are forces of limited power. 
That struggle which we call navigation is be- 
tween these two organizations — the one inex- 
haustible, the other intelligent. 

Mind, directing the mechanism, forms the 
counterbalance to the infinite power of the op- 
posing forces. But the opposing forces, too, 
have their organization. The elements are con- 
scious of where they go, and what they are about. 
No force is merely blind. It is the function of 
man to keep watch upon these natural agents, 
and to discover their laws. 


While these laws are still in great part undis. 
covered, the struggle continues, and in this 
struggle navigation, by the help of steam, is a 
perpetual victory won by human skill every hour 
of the day, and upon every point of the sea. The 
admirable feature in steam navigation is, that it 
disciplines the very ship herself. It diminishes 
her obedience to the winds, and increases her 
docility to man. 

The Durande had never worked better at sea 
than on that day. She made her way marvel- 
lously. 

Towards eleven o’clock, a fresh breeze blow- 
ing from the nor’-nor’-west, the Durande was 
off the Minquiers, under little steam, keeping her 
head to the west, on the starboard tack, and 
close up to the wind. The weather was still fine 
and clear. The trawlers, however, were making 
for shore. 

By little and little, as if each one was anxious 
to get into port, the sea became clear of the boats. 

It could not be said that the Durande was 
keeping quite her usual course. The crew gave 
no thought to such matters. The confidence in 
the captain was absolute ; yet, perhaps through 
the fault of the helmsman, there was a slight 
deviation. The Durande appeared to be mak- 
ing rather towards Jersey than Guernsey. A 
little after eleven the captain rectified the ves- 
sel’s course, and put her head fair for Guernsey. 
It was only a little time lost, but in short days 
time lost has its inconveniences. It w r as a Feb- 
ruary day, but the sun shone brightly. 

Tangrouille, in his half-intoxicated state, had 
not a very sure arm, nor a very firm footing. 
The result was, that the helmsman lurched pret- 
ty often, which also retarded progress. 

The wind had almost entirely fallen. 

The Guernsey passenger, who had a telescope 
in his hand, brought it to bear from time to time 
upon a little cloud of gray mist, lightly moved 
by the wind, in the extreme western horizon. It 
resembled a fleecy down sprinkled with dust. 

Captain Clubin wore his ordinary austere, 
Puritan-like expression of countenance. He 
appeared to redouble his attention. 

All was peaceful and almost joyous aboard 
the Durande. The passengers chatted. It is 
possible to judge of the state of the sea in a pas- 
sage with the eyes closed, by noting. the tremolo 
of the conversation about you. The full free- 
dom of mind among the passengers answers to 
the perfect tranquillity of the waters. 

It is impossible, for example, that a conversa- 
tion like the following could take place other- 
wise than on a very calm sea. 

“Observe that pretty green and red fly.” 

“ It has lost itself out at sea, and is resting 
on the ship.” 

“Flies do not soon get tired.” 

“No doubt; they are light; the wind carries 
them.” 

“An ounce of flies was once weighed, and 
afterwards counted ; and it was found to com- 
prise no less than six thousand two hundred and 
sixty-eight.” 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


The Guernsey passenger with the telescope 
had approached the St. Malo cattle-dealers, and 
their talk was something in this vein : 

“The Aubrac bull has a round and thick but- 
tock, short legs, and a yellowish hide. He is 
slow at -work by reason of the shortness of his 
legs.” 

“ In that matter the Salers beats the Aubrac.” 

“ I have seen, Sir, two beautiful bulls in my 
life. The first has the legs low, the breast thick, 
the rump full, the haunches large, a good length 
of neck to the udder, withers of good height, the 
skin easy to strip. The second had all the signs 
of good fattening, a thickset back, neck and 
shoulders strong, coat white and brown, rump 
sinking.” 

“That’s the Cotentin race.” 

“Yes ; with a slight cross with the Angus or 
Suffolk bull.” 

“ You may believe if you please, Sir, but I as- 
sure you in the south they hold shows of don- 
keys.” 

“ Shows of donkeys?” 

“ Of donkeys, on my honour. And the ugli- 
est are the most admired.” 

“ Ha ! it is the same as with the mule shows. 
The ugly ones are considered best.” 

“Exactly. Take also the Poitevin mares; 
large belly, thick legs.” 

“The best mule known is a sort of barrel 
upon four posts.” 

“Beauty in beasts is a different thing from 
beauty in men.” 

“And particularly in women.” 

“That is true.” 

“As for me, I like a woman to be pretty.” 

“ I am more particular about her being well 
dressed.” 

“Yes; neat, clean, and well set off.” 

“Looking just new. A pretty girl ought al- 
ways to appear as if she had just been turned 
out by the jeweller.” 

‘ ‘ To return to my bulls ; I saw these two sold 
at the market at Thouars.” 

“The market at Thouars; I know it very 
well. The Bonneaus of La Rochelle, and the 
Babus corn-merchants at Maraus, I don’t know 
whether you have heard of them attending that 
market.” 

The tourist and the Parisian were conversing 
with the American of the Bibles. 

“Sir,” said the tourist, “I will tell you the 
tonnage of the civilized world. France, 716,000 
tons; Germany, ?, 000, 000; the United States, 

5.000. 000; England, 5,500,000 ; add the small 
vessels. Total, 12,904,000 tons, carried in 
145,000 vessels, scattered over the waters of the 
globe.” 

The American interrupted : 

“It is the United States, Sir, which have 

5.500.000. ” 

“I defer,” said the tourist. “You are an 
American ?” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“I defer still more.” 

There was a pause. The American mission- 


61 

ary was considering whether this was a case foi 
the offer of a Bible. 

“ Is it true, Sir,” asked the tourist, “that you 
have a passion for nick-names in America so 
complete that you confer them upon all your 
celebrated men ? and that you call your famous 
Missouri banker, Thomas Benton, ‘Old Bullion,’ 
just as you call Zachary Taylor ‘ Old Zach ?’ ” 

“And General Harrison, ‘Old Tip;’ am I 
right? and General Jackson, ‘Old Hickory?’ ” 

“Because Jackson is hard as hickory wood ; 
and because Harrison beat the redskins at Tij)- 
pecanoe .” 

“ It is an odd fashion, that of yours.” 

“It is our custom. We call Van Buren 
‘ The Little Wizard ;’ Seward, w r ho introduced 
the small bank-notes, ‘ Little Billy ;’ and Doug- 
j las, the Democrat, senator from Illinois, who is 
four feet high, and very eloquent, ‘The Little 
Giant.’ You may go from Texas to the State 
of Maine without hearing the name of Mr. Cass. 
They say ‘The Great Michiganer;’ nor the name 
of Clay ; they say ‘ The Miller's Boy of the 
Slashes.’ Clay is the son of a miller.” 

“I should prefer to say ‘Clay’ or ‘Cass,’” 
said the Parisian. “ It’s shorter.” 

“Then you would be out of the fashion. We 
call Convin, who is the Secretary of the Treas- 
ury, ‘The Wagoner-boy;’ Daniel Webster, 
‘Black Dan.’ As to Winfield Scott, as his first 
thought, after beating the English at Chippe- 
way, was to sit down to dine, we call him 
‘Hasty Basin of Soup.’ ” 

The small white mist perceived in the dis- 
tance had become larger. It filled now a seg- 
ment of fifteen degrees above the horizon. It 
was like a cloud loitering along the water for 
want of wind to stir it. The breeze had almost 
entirely died aw'ay. The sea w'as glassy. Al- 
though it w-as not yet noon, the sun w r as be- 
coming pale. It lighted, but seemed to give 
no warmth. 

“I fancy,” said the tourist, “that we shall 
have a change of w r eather.” 

“Probably rain,” said the Parisian. 

“Or fog,” said the American. 

“In Italy,” remarked the tourist, “Molfetta 
is the place w'here falls the least rain, and Tol- 
inezzo where there falls the most.” 

At noon, according to the usage of the Chan- 
nel Islands, the bell sounded for dinner. Those 
dined who desired. Some passengers had 
brought with them provisions, and were eating 
merrily on the after-deck. Clubin did not eat. 

While this eating w r as going on, the conver- 
sations continued. 

The Guernsey man, having probably a scent 
for Bibles, approached the American. The 
latter said to him, 

“You know this sea?” 

“ Very well ; I belong to this part.” 

“And I too,” said one of the St. Malo 
men. 

The native of Guernsey followed with a bow, 
and continued : 

“We arc fortunately well put at sea now 


62 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


I should not have liked a fog when we were 
off the Minquiers.” 

The American said to the St. Malo man, 

“ Islanders are more at home on the sea than 
the folks of the coast.” 

“True ; we coast people are only half dipped 
in salt water.” • 

“What are the Minquiers?” asked the Amer- 
ican. 

The St. Malo man replied, 

“They are an ugly reef of rocks.” 

“There are also the Grelets,” said the 
Guernsey man. 

“Parbleu!” ejaculated the other. 

“And the Chouas,” added the Guernsey 
man. 

The inhabitant of St. Malo laughed. 

“As for that,” said he, “there are the Sav- 
ages also.” 

“And the Monks,” observed the Guernsey 
man. 

“And the Duck,” cried the St. Maloite. 

“ Sir,” remarked the inhabitant of Guernsey, 
“you have an answer for everything.” 

The tourist interposed with a question : 

“Have we to pass all that legion of rocks?” 

“No; we have left it to the sou’-south-east. 
It is behind us.” 

And the Guernsey passenger continued : 

“Big and little rocks together, the Grelets 
have fifty-seven peaks.” 

“And the Minquiers forty-eight,” said the 
other. 

The dialogue was now confined to the St. 
Malo and the Guernsey passenger. 

“It strikes me, Monsieur St. Malo, that there 
are three rocks which you have not included.” 

“I mentioned all.” 

“From the Deree to the Maitre lie?” 

“And Les Maisons?” 

“Yes; seven rocks in the midst of the Min- 
quiers.” 

“I see you know the very stones.” 

“ If I didn’t know the stones, I should not be 
an inhabitant of St. Malo.” 

“It is amusing to hear French people’s rea- 
sonings.” 

The St. Malo man bowed in his turn, and 
said, 

“The Savages are three rocks.” 

“And the Monks two.” 

“And the Duck one.” 

“ The Duck ; this is only one, of course.” 

“No; for the Suarde consists of four rocks.” 

“ What do you mean by the Suarde?” asked 
the inhabitant of Guernsey. 

“We call the Suarde what you call the 
Chouas.” 

“It is a queer passage, that between the 
Chouas and the Duck.” 

“It is impassable except for the birds.” 

“And the fish.” 

“ Scarcely : in bad weather they give them- 
selves hard knocks against the walls.” 

“There is sand near the Minquiers?” 

“Around Les Maisons.” 


“There are eight rocks visible from Jersey.” 

“Visible from the strand of Azette; that’s 
correct ; but not eight — only seven.” 

“At low water you can walk about the Min- 
quiers.” 

“No doubt; there would be sand above 
water.” 

“And what of the Dirouilles?” 

“The Dirouilles bear no resemblance to the 
Minquiers.” 

“They are very dangerous.” 

“The*y are near Granville.” 

“ I see that you St. Malo people, like us, en- 
joy sailing in these seas.” 

“Yes,” replied the St. Malo man, “with the 
difference that we say, ‘We have the habit;’ 
you, ‘We are fond.’ ” 

“You make good sailors.” 

“I am myself a*cattle-merchant.” 

“Who was that famous sailor of St. Malo?” 

“ Surcouf ?” 

“Another?” 

“ Duguay-Trouin.” 

Here the Parisian commercial man chimed 
in, 

“Duguay-Trouin ? He was captured by the 
English. He w'as as agreeable as he was brave. 
A young English lady fell in love with him. 
It w r as she who procured him his liberty.” 

At this moment a voice like thunder was 
heard crying out, 

“You are drunk ? man!” 


IV. 

CAPTAIN CLUBIN DISPLAYS ALL HIS GREAT 
QUALITIES. 

Everybody turned. 

It was the captain calling to the helmsman. 

Sieur Clubin’s tone and manner evidenced 
that he was extremely angry, or that he wished 
to appear so. 

A well-timed burst of anger sometimes re- 
moves responsibility, and sometimes shifts it on 
other shoulders. ^ 

The captain, standing on the bridge between 
the two paddle-boxes, fixed his eyes on the 
helmsman. He repeated, between his teeth, 
“ Drunkard.” The unlucky Tangrouille hung 
his head. 

The fog had made progress. It filled by this 
time nearly one half of the horizon. It seemed 
to advance from every quarter at the same time. 
There is something in a fog of the nature of a 
drop of oil upon the water. It enlarged in- 
sensibly. The light wind moved it onw-ard 
slowly and silently. By little and little, it took 
possession of the ocean. It w r as coming chiefly 
from the north-west, dead ahead : the ship had 
it before her prow, like a line of cliff moving 
vast and vague. It rose from the sea like a 
wall. There was an exact point where the 
wide waters entered the fog, and were lost to 
sight. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


63 


This line of the commencement of the fog 
was still above half a league distant. The in- 
terval was visibly growing less and less. The 
Durande made way; the fog made way also. 
It was drawing nearer to the vessel, while the 
vessel was drawing nearer to it. 

Clubin gave the order to put on more steam, 
and to hold off the coast. 

Thus, for some time, they skirted the edge of 
the fog; but still it advanced. The vessel, 
meanwhile, sailed in broad sunlight. 

Time was lost in these manoeuvres, which 
had little chance of success. Nightfall comes 
quickly in February. The native of Guernsey 
was meditating upon the subject of this fog. 
He said to the St. Malo men, 

“It will be thick.” 

“An ugly sort of weather at sea,” observed 
one of the St. Malo men. 

The other added, 

“A kind of thing which spoils a good pas- 
sage.” 

The Guernsey passenger approached Clubin, 
and said, 

“I’m afraid, Captain, that the fog will catch 
us.” 

Clubin replied, 

“ I wished to stay at St. Malo, but I was ad- 
vised to go.” 

“By whom?” 

“By some old sailors.” 

“You were certainly right to go,” said the 
Guernsey man. “Who knows whether there 
will not be a tempest to-morrow? At this sea- 
son you may wait and find it worse.” 

A few moments later, the Durande entered 
the fog bank. 

The effect was singular. Suddenly those 
who w r ere on the after-deck could not see those 
forward. A soft gray medium divided the ship 
in two. 

Then the entire vessel passed into the fog. 
The sun became like a dull red moon. Every- 
body suddenly shivered. The passengers put 
on their overcoats, and the sailors their tar- 
paulins. The sea, almost without a ripple, was 
the more menacing from its cold tranquillity. 
All was pale and wan. The black funnel and 
the heavy smoke struggled with the dewy mist 
which enshrouded the vessel. 

Dropping to westward was now useless. The 
captain kept the vessel’s head again towards 
Guernsey, and gave orders to put on the steam. 

The Guernsey passenger, hanging about the 
engine-room hatchway, heard the negro Imbran- 
cam talking to his engineer comrade. The pas- 
senger listened. The negro said, 

“This morning, in the sun, we were going 
half steam on; now, in the fog, we put on 
steam.” 

The Guernsey man returned to Clubin : 

“Captain Clubin, a look-out is useless; but 
have we not too much steam on ?” 

“What can I do, sir? We must make up 
for time lost through the fault of that drunk- 
ard of a helmsman.” 


“True, Captain Clubin.” 

And Clubin added, 

“ I am anxious to arrive. It is foggy enough 
by day ; it would be rather too much at night.” 

The Guernsey man rejoined his St. Malo fel- 
low-passengers, and remarked, 

“ We have an excellent captain.” 

At intervals, great waves of mist bore down 
heavily upon them, and blotted out the sun, 
which again issued out of them pale and sickly. 
The little that could be seen of the heavens re- 
sembled the long strips of painted sky, dirty and 
smeared with oil, among the old scenery of a 
theatre. 

The Durande passed close to a cutter which 
had cast anchor for safety. It was the “ Sheal- 
tiel” of Guernsey. The master of the cutter 
remarked the high speed of the steam vessel. 
It struck him also that she was not in her exact 
course. She seemed to him to bear to west- 
ward too much. The apparition of this vessel 
under full steam in the fog surprised him. 

Towards two o’clock the weather had become 
so thick that the captain was obliged to leave 
the bridge, and plant himself near the steers- 
man. The sun had vanished, and all was fog. 
A sort of ashy darkness surrounded the ship. 
They were navigating in a pale shroud. They 
could see neither sky nor water. 

There was not a breath of wind. 

The can of turpentine suspended under the 
bridge, between the paddle-boxes, did not even 
oscillate. 

The passengers had become silent. 

The Parisian, however, hummed between his 
teeth the song of Beranger — “ Un jour le bon 
Dieu s'tfveillant” 

One of the St. Malo passengers addressed 
him: 

“You are from Paris, sir?” 

“Yes, sir. limit la tete a lafenelrc. n 

“What do they do in Paris?” 

“ Leur planete a peri, peut-etre.” In Paris, 
sir, things are going on very badly. 

“Then it’s the same ashore as at sea.” 

“It is true; we have an abominable fog 
here.” 

“ One which might involve us in misfortunes.” 

The Parisian exclaimed, 

“Yes ; and why all' these misfortunes in the 
world ? Misfortunes ! What are they sent for, 
these misfortunes ? What use do they serve ? 
There was the fire at the Odeon theatre, and 
immediately a number of families thrown out 
of employment. Is that just ? I don’t know 
what is your religion, sir, but I am puzzled by 
all this.” 

“ So am I,” said the St. Malo man. 

“Everything that happens here .below,” con- 
tinued the Parisian, “seems to go wrong. It 
looks as if Providence, for some reason, no lon- 
ger watched over the world.” 

The St. Malo man scratched the top of his 
head, like one making an effort to understand. 
The Parisian continued : 

“Our guardian angel seems to be absent. 


64 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


There ought to be a decree against celestial ab- 
senteeism. He is at his country-house, and 
takes no notice of us ; so all goes wrong. It 
is evident that this guardian is not in the gov- 
ernment; he is taking holiday, leaving some 
yicar — some seminarist-angel, some wretched 
creature with sparrows’-wings — to look after af- 
fairs.” 

Captain Clubin, who had approached the 
speakers during this conversation, laid his hand 
upon the shoulder of the Parisian : 

“Silence, sir,” he said. “Keep a watch 
upon your words. We are upon the sea.” 

No one spoke again aloud. 

After a pause of five minutes, the Guernsey 
man, who had heard all this, whispered in the 
ear of the St. Malo passenger, 

“A religious man, our captain.” 

It did not rain, but all felt their clothing wet. 
The crew took no heed of the way they were 
making; but there was increased sense of un- 
easiness. They seemed to have entered into a 
doleful region. The fog makes a deep silence 
on the sea ; it calms the waves, and stifles the 
wind. In the midst of this silence, the creaking 
of the Durande communicated a strange, inde- 
finable feeling of melancholy and disquietude. 

They passed no more vessels. If afar off, in 
the direction of Guernsey or in that of St. Malo, 
any vessels were at sea outside the fog, the Du- 
rande, submerged in the dense cloud, must have 
been invisible to them ; while her long trail of 
smoke, attached to nothing, looked like a black 
comet in the pale sky. 

Suddenly Clubin roared out, 

“Hang-dog! you have played us an ugly 
trick. You will have done us some damage 
before we are out of this. You deserve to be 
put in irons. Get you gone, drunkard ! ” 

And he seized the helm himself. 

The steersman, humbled, shrunk away to take 
part in the duties forward. 

The Guernsey man said, 

“That will save us.” 

The vessel was still making way rapidly. 

Towards three o’clock, the lower part of the 
fog began to clear, and they could see the sea 
again. 

A mist can only be dispersed by the sun or 
the wind. By the sun is well ; by the wind is 
not so well. At three o’clock in the afternoon, 
in the month of February, the sun is always 
weak. A return of the wind at this critical 
point in a voyage is not desirable. It is often 
the forerunner of a hurricane. 

If there was any breeze, however, it was 
scarcely perceptible. 

Clubin, with his eye on the binnacle, holding 
the tiller and steering, muttered to himself some 
words like the following, which reached the ears 
of the passengers : 

“No time to be lost ; that drunken rascal has 
retarded us.” 

His visage, meanwhile, was absolutely with- 
out expression. 

The sea was less calm under the mist. A 


few waves were distinguishable. Little patches 
of light appeared on the surface of the water. 
These luminous patches attract the attention 
of the sailors. They indicate openings made 
by the wind in the overhanging roof of fog. 
The cloud rose a little, and then sunk heavier. 
Sometimes the density was perfect. The ship 
was involved in a sort of foggy iceberg. At 
intervals this terrible circle opened a little, like 
a pair of pincers ; showed a glimpse of the hor- 
izon, and then closed again. 

Meanwhile the Guernsey man, armed with his 
spy-glass, was standing like a sentinel in the 
fore part of the vessel. 

An opening appeared for a moment, and was 
blotted out again. 

The Guernsey man returned alarmed. 

“Captain Clubin!” 

“What is the matter?” 

“ We are steering right upon the Hanways.” 

“You are mistaken,” said Clubin, coldly. 

The Guernsey man insisted : 

“ I am sure of it.” 

“ Impossible.” 

“I have just seen the rock in the horizon.” 

“Where?” 

“Out yonder.” 

“ It is the open sea there. Impossible.” 

And Clubin kept the vessel’s head to the 
point indicated by the passenger. 

The Guernsey man seized his spy-glass again. 

“Captain!” 

“Well.” 

“Tack about.” 

“Why.” 

“I am certain of having seen a very high rock 
just ahead. It is the Great Hanways.” 

“You have seen nothing but a thicker bank 
of fog.” 

“It is the Great Hanways. Tack, in the 
name of Heaven !” 

Clubin gave the helm a turn. 


Y. 

CLUBIN REACHES THE CROWNING-POINT OF 
GLORY. 

A crash was heard. The ripping of a ves- 
sel’s side upon a sunken reef in open sea is the 
most dismal sound of which man can dream. 
The Durande’s course was stopped short. 

Several passengers were knocked down with 
the shock and rolled upon the deck. 

The Guernsey man raised his hands to heav- 
en : 

“We are on the Hanways. I predicted it.” 

A long cry went up from the ship : 

“We are lost.” 

The voice of Clubin, dry and short, was heard 
above all : 

“ No one is lost. Silence 1” 

The black form of Imbrancam, naked down 
to the waist, issued from the hatchway of the 
engine-room. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


65 


The negro said with self-possession, 

“The water is gaining, Captain. The fires 
will soon be out.” 

The moment was terrible. 

The shock was like that of a suicide. If the 
disaster had been wilfully sought, it could not 
have been more terrible. The Durande had 
rushed upon her fate as if she had attacked the 
rock itself. A point had pierced her sides like 
a wedge. More than six feet square of plank- 
ing had gone ; the stem was broken, the prow 
smashed, and the gaping hull drank in the sea 
with a horrible gulping noise. It was an en- 
trance for wreck and ruin. The rebound was 
so violent that it had shattered the rudder pend- 
ants ; the rudder itself hung unhinged and flap- 
ping. The rock had driven in her bottom. 
Hound about the vessel nothing was visible ex- 
cept a thick, compact fog, now become sombre. 
Night was gathering fast. 

The Durande plunged forward. It was like 
the effort of a horse pierced through the en- 
trails by the horn of a bull. All was over with 
her. 

Tangrouille was sobered. Nobody is drunk 
in the moment of a shipwreck. He came down 
to the quarter-deck, went up again, and said, 

“ Captain, the water is gaining rapidly in the 
hold. In ten minutes the water will be up to 
the scupper-holes.” 

The passengers ran about bewildered, wring- 
ing their hands, leaning over the bulwarks, look- 
ing down in the engine-room, and making every 
other sort of useless movement in their terror. 
The tourist had fainted. 

Clubin made a sign with his hand and they 
were silent. He questioned Imbrancam : 

“How long will the engines work yet?” 

“Five or six minutes, sir.” 

Then he interrogated the Guernsey passen- 
ger: 

“ I was at the helm. You saw the rock. 
On which bank of the Hanways are we?” 

“On the Mauve. Just now, in the opening 
in the fog, I saw it clearly.” 

“If we’re on the Mauve,” remarked Clubin, 
“we have the Great Hanways on the port side, 
And the Little Hanways on the starboard bow ; 
we are a mile from the shore.” 

The crew r and passengers listened, fixing their 
eyes anxiously and attentively on the Captain. 

Lightening the ship would have been of no 
avail, and indeed would have been hardly pos- 
sible. In order to throw the cargo overboard, 
they would have had to open the ports, and in- 
crease the chance of the water entering. To 
cast anchor would have been equally useless: 
they were stuck fast. Besides, with such a bot- 
tom for the anchor to drag, the chain would 
probably have fouled. The engines not being 
injured, and being workable as long as the fires 
were not extinguished, that is to say, for a few 
minutes longer, they could have made an ef- 
fort, by help of steam and her paddles, to turn 
her astern off the rocks •, but if they had suc- 
ceeded, they must have settled down immedi- 
E 


atcly. The rock, indeed, in some degree, stop- 
ped the breach and prevented the entrance of 
the water. It was, at least, some obstacle ; 
while the hole once freed, it would have been 
impossible to stop the leak or to work the pumps. 
To snatch a poniard from a wound in the heart 
is instant death to the victim. To free them- 
selves from the rock would be simply to founder. 

The cattle, on whom the water was gaining 
in the hold, were lowing piteously. 

Clubin issued orders : 

“Launch the long-boat.” 

Imbrancam and Tangrouille rushed to exe- 
cute the order. The boat was eased from her 
fastening. The rest of the crew looked on stu- 
pefied. 

“All hands to assist,” cried Clubin. 

This time all obeyed. 

Clubin, self-possessed, continued to issue hi# 
orders in that old sea dialect, which French sail- 
ors of the present day would scarcely understand. 

“ Haul in a rope — Get a cable if the capstan 
does not work — Stop heaving — Keep the blocks 
clear — Lower away there — Bring her down 
stern and bows — Now, then, all together, lads 
— Take care she don’t lower stern first — There’s 
too much strain on there — Hold the lanyard of 
the stock tackle — Stand by, there !” 

The long-boat was launched. 

At that instant the Durande’s paddles stopped, 
and the smoke ceased — the fires were drowned. 

The passengers slipped down the ladder, and 
dropped hurriedly into the long-boat. Imbran- 
cam lifted the fainting tourist, carried him into 
the boat, and then boarded the vessel again. 

The crew made a rush after the passengers; 
the cabin-boy was knocked down, and the oth- 
ers were treading upon his body. 

Imbrancam barred their passage. 

“ Not a man before the lad,” he said. 

He kept off the sailors with his two black 
arms, picked up the boy, and handed him down 
to the Guernsey man, who was standing upright 
in the boat. 

The boy saved, Imbrancam made way for the 
others, and said, 

“ Pass on !” 

Meanwhile Clubin had entered his cabin, and 
had made up a parcel containing the ship’s pa- 
pers and instruments. He took the compass 
from the binnacle, handed the papers and in- 
struments to Imbrancam, and the compass to 
Tangrouille, and said to them, 

“Get aboard the boat.” 

They obeyed. The crew had taken their 
places before them. 

“Now,” cried Clubin, “push off.” 

A cry arose from the long-boat, 

“What about yourself, Captain?” 

“I will remain here.” 

Shipwrecked people have little time to delib- 
erate, and not much for indulging in tender 
feeling. Those who were in the long-boat, and 
in comparative safety, however, felt an emotion 
which was not altogether selfish. All the voices 
shouted together. 


66 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


“ Come with us, Captain.” 

“No; I remain here.” 

The Guernsey man, who had some experi- 
ence of the sea, replied, 

“Listen to me, Captain. You are wrecked 
on the Hanways. Swimming, you would have 
only a mile to cross to Pleinmont. In a boat, 
you can only land at Rocquaine, which is two 
miles. There are breakers, and there is the 
fog. Our boat will not get to Rocquaine in 
less than two hours. It will be dark night. 
The sea is rising* the wind getting fresh. A 
squall is at hand. We are now ready to return 
and bring you off; but if bad weather comes on, 
that will be out of our power. You are lost if 
you stay there. Come with us.” 

The Parisian chimed in, 

“The long-boat is full — too full, it is true, 
and one more will certainly be one too many ; 
but we arc thirteen — a bad number for the 
boat, and it is better to overload her with a man 
than to take an ominous number. Come, Cap- 
tain.” 

Tangrouille added, 

“It was all my fault, not yours, Captain. 
It isn’t fair for you to be left behind.” 

“I have decided to remain here,” said Clu- 
bin. “The vessel must inevitably go to pieces 
in the tempest to-night. I won’t leave her. 
When the ship is lost, the Captain is already 
dead. People shall not say I didn’t do my duty 
to the end. Tangrouille, I forgive you.” 

Then, folding his arms, he cried, 

“ Obey orders ! Let go the cable, and push off.” 

The long-boat swayed to and fro. Imbran- 
cam had seized the tiller. All the hands which 
were not rowing w-ere raised towards the Cap- 
tain ; every mouth cried, “ Cheers for Captain 
Clubin.” 

“An admirable fellow!” said the American. 

“Sir,” replied the Guernsey man, “ho is 
one of the worthiest seamen afloat.” 

Tangrouille shed tears. 

“If I had had the courage,” he said, “I 
would have stayed with him.” 

The long-boat pushed away, and was lost in 
the fog. 

Nothing more was visible. 

The beat of the oars grew fainter, and died 
away. 

Clubin remained alone. 


YI. 

THE INTERIOR OF AN ABYSS SUDDENLY RE- 
VEALED. 

When Clubin fottnd himself upon this rock, 
in the midst of the fog and the wide waters, far 
from all sound of human life, left for dead, 
alone with the tide rising around him, and night 
settling down rapidly, he experienced a feeling 
of profound satisfaction. 

He had succeeded. 

His dream was realized at last. The accept- 


ance which he had drawn upon destiny at so 
long a date had fallen due at last. 

With him, to be abandoned there, was, in 
fact, to be saved. 

He was on the Hanways, one mile from the 
shore; he had about him seventy-five thousand 
francs. Never was shipwreck more scientific- 
ally accomplished. Nothing had failed. It is 
true, everything had been foreseen. From his 
early years Clubin had had an idea to stake his 
reputation for honesty at life’s gaming-table ; 
to pass as a man of high honour, and to make 
that reputation his fulcrum for other things ; to 
bide his time, to watch his opportunity; not to 
grope about blindly, but to seize boldly ; to ven- 
ture on one great stroke, only one ; and to end 
by sweeping off the stakes, leaving fools behind 
him to gape and wonder. What stupid rogues 
fail in twenty times, he meant to accomplish at 
the first blow ; and while they terminated a ca- 
reer at the gallows, he intended to finish with a 
fortune. The meeting with Rantaine had been 
a new light to him. He had immediately laid 
bis plan — to compel Rantaine to disgorge ; to 
frustrate his threatened revelations by disap- 
pearing; to make the world believe him dead, 
the best of all modes of concealment ; and for 
this purpose to wreck the Durande. The ship- 
wreck was absolutely necessary to his designs. 
Lastly, he had the satisfaction of vanishing, 
leaving behind him a great renowm, the crown- 
ing point of his existence. As he stood medi- 
tating on these things amid the wreck, Clubin 
might have been taken for some demon in a 
pleasant mood. 

He had lived a lifetime for the sake of this 
one minute. 

His whole exterior was expressive of the two 
words — “ At last.” A devilish tranquillity reign- 
ed in that sallow countenance. 

His dull eye, the depth of which generally 
seemed to be impenetrable, became clear and 
terrible. The inward fire of his dark spirit was 
reflected there. 

Man’s inner nature, like that external world 
about him, has its electric phenomena. An 
idea is like a meteor; at the moment of its 
coming, the confused meditations which pre- 
ceded it open a way, and a spark flashes forth ; 
bearing within one’s self a power of evil, feeling 
an inward prey, brings to some minds a pleas- 
ure, which is like a sparkle of light. The tri- 
umph of an evil purpose brightens up their vis- 
ages. The success of certain cunning combina- 
tions, the attainment of certain cherished objects, 
the gratification of certain ferocious instincts, 
will manifest themselves in sinister but luminous 
appearances in their eyes. It is like a threat- 
ening dawn, a gleam of joy drawn out of the 
heart of a storm. These flashes are generated 
in the conscience in its states of cloud and 
darkness. 

Some such signs were then exhibiting them- 
selves in the pupils of those eyes. They were 
like nothing else that can be seen shining either 
above or here below. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


G7 


All Clubin’s pent up wickedness found full 
vent now. 

He gazed into the vast surrounding darkness, 
and indulged in a low, irrepressible laugh, full 
of sinister significance. 

He was rich at last ! rich at last ! 

The unknown future of his life was at length 
unfolding ; the problem was solved. 

Clubin had plenty of time before him. The 
»ea was rising, and consequently sustained the 
Durande, and even raised her at last a little. 
The vessel kept firmly in its place among the 
rocks ; there was no danger of her foundering. 
Besides, he determined to give the long-boat 
time to get clear off — to go to the bottom, per- 
haps. Clubin hoped it might. 

Erect upon the deck of the shipwrecked ves- 
sel, he folded his arms, apparently enjoying that 
forlorn situation in the dark night. 

Hypocrisy had weighed upon this man for 
thirty years. He had been evil itself, yoked 
with probity for a mate. He detested virtue 
with the feeling of one •who has been trapped 
into a hateful match. He had always had a 
wicked premeditation ; from the time when he 
attained manhood he had worn the cold and 
rigid armour of appearances. Underneath this 
was the demon of self. He had lived like a 
bandit in the disguise of an honest citizen. He 
had been the soft-spoken pirate ; the bond-slave 
of honesty. He had been confined in garments 
of innocence as in oppressive mummy cloths ; 
had worn those angel wings which the devils 
find so wearisome in their fallen state. He had 
been overloaded with public esteem. It is ar- 
duous passing for a shining light. To preserve 
a perpetual equilibrium amid these difficulties, 
to think evil, to speak goodness — here had been 
indeed a labour. Such a life of contradictions 
had been Clubin’s fate. It had been his lot — 
not the less onerous because he had chosen it 
himself — to preserve a good exterior, to be al- 
ways presentable, to foam in secret, to smile 
while grinding his teeth. Virtue presented it- 
self to his mind as something stifling. He had 
felt, sometimes, as if he could have gnawed 
those finger-ends which he was compelled to 
keep before his mouth. 

To live a life which is a perpetual falsehood 
is to suffer unknown tortures. To be premed- 
itating indefinitely a diabolical act; to have to 
assume austerity ; to brood over secret infamy 
seasoned with outward good fame ; to have con- 
tinually to put the world off the scent; to pre- 
sent a perpetual illusion, and never to be one’s 
self — j g a burdensome task. To have to dip the 
brush in that dark stuff within, to produce with 
it a portrait of candour; to fawn, to restrain 
and suppress one’s self, to be ever on the qui vive ; 
watching without ceasing, to mask latent crimes 
with a face of healthy innocence ; to transform 
deformity into beauty; to fashion wickedness 
into the shape of perfection ; to tickle as it were 
with the point of a dagger, to put sugar with 
poison, to keep a bridle on every gesture and 
a watch over every tone, not even to have a 


countenance of one’s own — what can be harder, 
what can be more torturing? The odiousness 
of hypocrisy is obscurely felt by the hypocrite 
himself. Drinking perpetually of his own im- 
posture is nauseating. The sweetness of tone 
which cunning gives to scoundrclism is repug- 
nant to the scoundrel compelled to have it ever 
in the mouth ; and there are moments of nausea 
when villainy seems on the point of vomiting its 
secret. To have to swallow that bitter saliva 
is horrible. Add to this picture his profound 
pride. There are strange moments in the his- 
tory of such a life, when hypocrisy worships it- 
self. There is always an inordinate egotism 
in roguery. The worm has the same mode of 
gliding along as the serpent, and the same man- 
ner of raising its head. The treacherous villain 
is the despot curbed and restrained, and only 
able to attain his ends by resigning himself to 
play a secondary part. He is summed-np lit- 
tleness capable of enormities. The perfect hyp- 
ocrite is a Titan dwarfed. 

Clubin had a genuine faith that he had been 
ill-used. Why had not he the right to have 
been born rich ? It was from no fault of his 
that it was otherwise. Deprived as he had been 
of the higher enjoyments of life, why had he 
been forced to labour— in other words, to cheat, 
to betray, to destroy ? Why had he been con- 
demned to this torture of flattering, cringing, 
fawning; to be always labouring for men’s re- 
spect and friendship, and to wear night and day 
a face which was not his own? To be com- 
pelled to dissimulate was in itself to submit to a 
hardship. Men hate those to whom they have 
to lie. But now the disguise was at an end. 
Clubin had now taken his revenge. 

On whom ? On all ! On everything ! 

Lethierry had never done him any but good 
services ; so much the greater his spleen. He 
was revenged upon Lethierry. 

He was revenged upon all those in whose 
presence he had felt constraint. It was his turn 
to be free now. Wnrover had thought well of 
him was his enemy. He had felt himself their 
captive long enough. 

Now he had broken through his prison walls. 
His escape was accomplished. That which 
would be regarded as his death, would be, in 
fact, the beginning of his life. He was about 
to begin the world again. The true Clubin had 
stripped off the false. In one hour the spell 
was broken. He had kicked Rantaine into 
space ; overwhelmed Lethierry in ruin ; human 
justice in night, and opinion in error. He had 
cast off all humanity; blotted out the whole 
world. 

The name of God, that word of three letters, 
occupied his mind but little. 

He had passed for a religious man. What 
was he now ? 

There are secret recesses in hypocrisy; or 
rather the hypocrite is himself a secret recess. 

When Clubin found himself quite alone, that 
cavern in which his soul had so long lain hidden 
was opened. He en joyed a moment of delicious 


68 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


liberty. He revelled for that moment in the 
open air. He gave vent to himself in one long 
breath. 

The depth of evil within him revealed itself 
in his visage. He expanded, as it were, with 
diabolical joy. The features of Kantaine by the 
side of his at that moment would have shown 
like the innocent expression of a new-born child. 

What a deliverance was this plucking off of 
the old mask. His conscience rejoiced in the 
sight of its own monstrous nakedness, as it step- 
ped forth to take its hideous bath of wickedness. 
The long restraint of men’s respect seemed to 
have given him a peculiar relish for infamy. 
He experienced a certain lascivious enjoyment 
of wickedness. In those frightful moral abysses 
so rarely sounded, such natures find atrocious 
delights — they are the obscenities of rascality. 
The long-endured insipidity of the false reputa- 
tion for virtue gave him an appetite for shame. 
In this state of mind, men disdain their fellows 
so much that they even long for the contempt 
which marks the ending of their unmerited 
bondage. They feel a satisfaction in the free- 
dom of degradation, and cast an eye of envy at 
baseness, sitting at its ease, clothed in ignominy 
and shame. Eyes that arc forced to droop mod- 
estly are familiar with these stealthy glances at 
sin. From Messalina to Marie-Alacoque the 
distance is not great. Remember the histories 
of La Cadiere and the nun of Louviers. Clu- 
bin, too, had worn the veil. Effrontery had al- 
ways been the object of his secret admiration. 
He envied the painted courtesan, and the face 
of bronze of the professional ruffian. He felt a 
pride in surpassing her in artifices, and a disgust 
for the trick of passing for a saint. He had been 
the Tantalus of Cynicism. And now, upon this 
rock, in the midst of this solitude, he could be 
frank and open. A bold plunge into wickedness 
— what a voluptuous sense of relief it brought 
with it. All the delights known to the fallen 
angels are summed up ii*tiiis; and Clubin felt 
them at that moment. ^Rie long arrears of 
dissimulations were paid at last. Hypocrisy is 
an investment; the devil reimburses it. Clu- 
bin gave himself up to the intoxication of the 
idea, having no longer any eye upon him but 
that of Heaven. He whispered within himself, 
“ I am a scoundrel,” and felt profoundly satis- 
fied. 

Never had human conscience experienced 
such a full tide of emotions. 

He was glad to be entirely alone, and yet 
would not have been sorry to have had some 
one there. He would have been pleased to 
have had a witness of his fiendish joy — gratified 
to have had opportunity of saying to society, 
“Thou fool!” 

The solitude, indeed, assured his triumph, but 
it made it less. 

He was not himself to be spectator of his 
glory. Even to be in. the pillory has its satis- 
faction, for everybody can sec your infamy. 

To compel the crowd to stand and gape is, in 
fact, an exercise of power. A malefactor stand- 


ing upon a platform in the market-place, with 
the collar of iron round his neck, is master of 
all the glances which he constrains the multi- 
tude to turn towards him. There is a pedestal 
on yonder scaffolding. To be there — the cen- 
tre of universal observation — is not this, too, a 
triumph? To direct the pupil of the public 
eye, is this not another form of supremacy? 
For those who worship an ideal wickedness, op- 
probrium is glory. It is a height from whence 
they can look down ; a superiority at least of 
some kind ; a pre-eminence in which they can 
display themselves royally. A gallows standing 
high in the gaze of all the world is not without 
some analogy with a throne. To be exposed is, 
at least, to be seen and studied. 

Herein we have evidently the key to the wick- 
ed reigns of history. Nero burning Rome, Louis 
Quatorze treacherously seizing the Palatinate, 
the Prince Regent killing Napoleon slowly, 
Nicholas strangling Poland before the eyes of 
the civilized world, may have felt something 
akin to Clubin’s joy. Universal execration de- 
rives a grandeur even from its vastness. 

To be unmasked is a humiliation ; but to un- 
mask one’s self is a triumph. There is an in- 
toxication in the position, an insolent satisfac- 
tion in its contempt for appearances, a flaunting 
insolence in the nakedness with which it affronts 
the decencies of life. 

These ideas in a hypocrite appear to be in- 
consistent, but in reality are not. All infamy 
is logical. Honey is gall. A character like 
that of Escobar has some affinity with that cf 
the Marquis de Sade. In proof, we have Leo- 
tade. A hypocrite, being a personification of 
vice complete, includes in himself the two poles 
of perversity. Priest-like on one side, he re- 
sembles the courtesan on the other. The sex 
of his diabolical nature is double. It engenders 
and transforms itself. Would you see it in its 
pleasing shape ? Look at it. Would you sec 
it horrible ? Turn it round. 

All this multitude of ideas was floating con- 
fusedly in Clubin's mind. He analyzed them 
little, but he felt them much. 

A whirlwind of flakes of fire, borne up from 
the pit of hell into the dark night, might fitly 
represent the wild succession of ideas in his 
soul. 

Clubm remained thus some time, pensive and 
motionless. He looked down upon his cast-oft 
virtues as a serpent on its old skin. 

Every body had had faith in that virtue ; 
even he himself a little. 

He laughed again. 

Society would imagine him dead, while he 
was rich. They would believe him drowned, 
while he was saved. What a capital trick to 
have played off on the stupidity of the world. 

Rantaine, too, was included in that universal 
stupidity. Clubin thought of Rantaine with an 
unmeasured disdain : the disdain of the mar- 
ten for the tiger. The trick had failed with 
Rantaine — it had succeeded with him, Clubin. 
Rantaine had slunk away abashed ; Clubin dis- 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


G9 


appeared in triumph. He had substituted him- 
self for llantaine — stepped between him and his 
mistress, and carried off her favours. 

As to the future, he had no well-settled plan. 
In the iron tobacco-box in his girdle he had 
the three bank-notes. The knowledge of that 
fact was enough. He would change his name. 
There are plenty of countries where sixty thou- 
sand francs are equal to six hundred thousand. 
It would be no bad solution to go to one of those 
corners of the world, and live there honestly on 
the money disgorged by that scoundrel Ran- 
taine. To speculate, to embark in commerce, 
to increase his capital, to become really a mil- 
lionaire, that, too, would be no bad termination 
to his career. 

For example, the great trade in coffee from 
Costa Rica was just beginning to be developed. 
There were heaps of gold to be made there. He 
would see. 

It was of little consequence. He had plenty 
of time to think of it. The hardest part of the 
enterprise was accomplished. Stripping Ran- 
taine, and disappearing with the wreck of the 
Durande, were the grand achievements. All 
the rest was for him simple. No obstacle hence- 
forth was likely to stop him. He had nothing 
more to fear. He could reach the shore with 
certainty by swimming. He would land at 
Plemmont in the darkness; ascend the cliffs; 
go straight to the old haunted house ; enter it 
easily by the help of the knotted cord, concealed 
beforehand in a crevice of the rocks ; would find 
in the house his travelling-bag, containing pro- 
visions and dry clothing. There he could await 
his opportunity. He had information. A week 
would not pass without the Spanish smugglers, 
Blasquito probably, touching at Pleinmont. For 
a few guineas he would obtain a passage, not to 
Torbay — as he had said to Blasco, to confound 
conjecture, and put him off the scent — but to 
Bilbao or Passages. Thence he could get to 
Vera Cruz or New Orleans. But the moment 
had come for taking to the water. The long- 
boat was far enough by this time. An hour’s 
swimming was nothing for Clnbin. The dis- 
tance of a mile only separated him from the 
land, as he was on the Hanways. 

At this point in Clubin’s meditations, a clear 
opening appeared in the fog-bank. The formi- 
dable Douvres rocks stood before him. 


VII. 

AN UNEXPECTED DENOUEMENT. 

Clubin, haggard, stared straight ahead. 

It was indeed those terrible and solitary rocks. 

It was impossible to mistake their misshapen 
outlines. The two twin Douvres reared their 
forms aloft, hideously revealing the passage be- 
tween them like a snare — a cut-throat in am- 
bush in the ocean. 

They were quite close to him. The fog, like 
an artful accomplice, had hidden them until now. 


Clubin had mistaken his course in the dense 
mist. Notwithstanding all his pains, he had 
experienced the fate of two other great naviga- 
tors — Gonzalez, who discovered Cape Blanco, 
and Fernandez, who discovered CSpe Verde. 
The fog had bewildered him. It had seemed 
to him, in the confidence of his seamanship, to 
favour admirably the execution of his project ; 
but it had its perils. In veering to westward 
he had lost his reckoning. The Guernsey man, 
who fancied that he recognized the Hanways, 
had decided his fate, and determined him to 
give the final turn to the tiller. Clubin had 
never doubted that he had steered the vessel on 
the Hanways. 

The Durande, stove in by one of the sunken 
rocks of the group, was only separated from the 
two Douvres by a few cables’ lengths. 

At two hundred fathoms farther was a mass- 
ive block of granite. Upon the steep sides of 
this rock were some hollows and small projec- 
tions which might help a man to climb. The 
square corners of those rude walls at right an- 
gles indicated the existence of a plateau on the 
summit. 

It was the height known by the name of 
“The Man.” 

“The Man” rock rose even higher still than 
the Douvres. Its platform commanded a view 
over their two inaccessible peaks. This plat- 
form, crumbling at its cgdes, had every kind of 
irregularity of shape. No place more desolate 
or more dangerous could be imagined. The 
hardly perceptible waves of the open sea lapped 
gently against the square sides of that dark, 
enormous mass — a sort of resting-place for the 
vast spectres of the sea and darkness. 

All around was calm. Scarcely a breath of 
air or a ripple. The mind guessed darkly the 
hidden life and vastness of the depths beneath 
that quiet surface. 

Clubin had often seen the Douvres from 
afar. 

He satisfied himg|p that he was indeed there. 

He could not doubt it. 

A sudden and hideous change of affairs. The 
Douvres instead of the Hanways. Instead of 
one mile, five leagues of sea ! The Douvres to 
the solitary shipwrecked sailor is the visible and 
palpable presence of death — the extinction of 
all hope of reaching land. 

Clubin shuddered. He had placed himself 
voluntarily in the jaws of destruction. No oth- 
er refuge was left him than “The Man” rock. 
It was probable that a tempest would arise in 
the night, and that the long-flbat, overloaded as 
she was, would sink. No news of the ship- 
wreck then would come to land. It would not 
even be known that Clubin had been left upon 
the Douvres. No prospect was now before him 
but death from cold and hunger. His seventy- 
five thousand francs would not purchase him a 
mouthful of bread. All the scaffolding he had 
built up had brought him only to this snare. 
He alone was the laborious architect of this 
crowning catastrophe. No resource — no possi- 


70 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


ble escape ; his triumph transformed into a fa- 
tal precipice. Instead of deliverance, a prison ; 
instead of the long prosperous future, agony. 
In the glance of an eye, in the moment which 
the lightning occupies in passing, all his con- 
struction, had fallen into ruins. The paradise 
dreamed of by this demon had changed to its 
true form of a sepulchre. 

Meanwhile there had sprung up a movement 
in the air. The wind was rising. The fog, 
shaken, driven in, and torn, moved towards the 
horizon in vast shapeless masses. As quickly 
as it had disappeared before, the sea became 
once more visible. 

The cattle, more and more invaded by the 
waters, continued to bellow in the hold. 

Night was approaching, probably bringing 
with it a storm. 

The,Durande, filling slowly with the rising 
tide, swung from right to left, then from left to 
right, and began to turn upon the rock as upon 
a pivot. 

The moment could be foreseen when a wave 
must move her from her fixed position, and 
probably roll her over on her beam-ends. 

It was not even so dark as at the instant of 
her striking the rocks. Though the day was 
more advanced, it was possible to see more 
clearly. The fog had carried away with it some 
part of the darkness. The west was w ithout a 
cloud. Twilight brings a pale sky. Its vast 
reflection glimmered on the sea. 

The Durande’s bows were lower than her 
stern. Her stern was, in fact, almost out of 
the water. Clubin mounted on her taffrail, 
and fixed his eyes on the horizon. 

It is the nature of hypocrisy to be sanguine. 
The hypocrite is one who w’aits his opportunity. 
Hypocrisy is nothing, in fact, but a horrible 
hopefulness ; the very foundation of its revolt- 
ing falsehood is composed of that virtue trans- 
formed into a vice. 

Strange contradiction. j^There is a certain 
trustfulness in hypocrisy.®Thc hypocrite con- 
fides in some power, unrevealed even to himself, 
which permits the course of evil. 

Clubin looked far and wide over the ocean. 

The position v>as desperate, but that evil spir- 
it did not yet despair. 

He knew that after the fog, vessels that had 
been lying-to or riding at anchor would resume 
their course ; and he thought that perhaps one» 
would pass within the horizon. 

And, as he had anticipated, a sail appeared. 

She was coming from the east and steering 
towards the west. '$ 

As it approached, the cut of the vessel be- 
came visible. It had but one mast, and was 
schooner rigged. Her bowsprit was almost hor- 
izontal. It was a cutter. 

Before half an hour she must pass not very 
far from the Douvres. 

Clubin said within himself, “I am saved!” 


In a moment like this, a man thinks at first 
of nothing but his life. 

The cutter w'as probably a strange craft. 
Might it not be one of the smuggling vessels on 
its way to Fleinmont ? It might even be Blas- 
quito himself. In that case, not only life, but 
fortune would be saved ; and the accident of 
the Douvres, by hastening the conclusion, by 
dispensing with the necessity for concealment in 
the haunted house, and by bringing the adven- 
ture to a denouement at sea, would be turned 
into a happy incident. 

All his original confidence of success returned 
fanatically to his sombre mind. 

It is remarkable how easily knaves are per- 
suaded that they deserve to succeed. 

There was but one course to take. 

The Durande, entangled among the rocks, 
necessarily mingled her outline with them, and 
confounded herself with their irregular shapes, 
among which she formed only one more mass 
of lines. Thus become indistinct and lost, she 
w'ould not suffice, in the little light which re- 
mained, to attract the attention of the crew of 
the vessel which was approaching. 

But a human form standing up, black against 
the pale twilight of the sky, upon “the Man 
Rock,” and making signs of distress, would 
doubtless be perceived, and the cutter would 
then send a boat to take the shipwrecked man 
aboard. 

“The Man” w r as only two hundred fathoms 
off. To reach it by swimming was simple, to 
climb it easy. 

There was not a minute to lose. ** 

The bows of the Durande being low between 
the rocks, it was from the height of the poop 
where Clubin stood that he had to jump into 
the sea. He began by taking a sounding, and 
discovered that there was great depth just under 
the stern of the wrecked vessel. The micro- 
scopic shells of foraminifera which the adhesive 
matter on the lead -line brought up were intact, 
indicating the presence of very hollow caves 
under the rocks, in which the water was tran- 
quil, however great the agitation of the surface. 

He undressed, leaving his clothing on the 
deck. He knew that he would be able to get 
clothing when aboard the cutter. 

He retained nothing but his leather belt. 

As soon as he was stripped, he placed his 
hand upon this belt, buckled it more securely, 
felt for the iron tobacco-box, took a rapid sur- 
vey in the direction which he would have to 
follow among the breakers and the waves to 
gain “ the Man Rock then precipitating him- 
self head first, he plungedjnto the sea. 

As he dived from a height, he plunged heavily. 

He sank deep in the water, touched the bot- 
tom, skirted for a moment the submarine rocks, 
then struck out to regain the surface. 

At that moment he felt himself seized by 
one foot. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


II 


BOOK VII. 

THE DANGER OF OPENING A BOOK AT RANDOM. 


I. 

THE PEARL AT THE TOOT OP A PRECIPICE. 

A few moments after his short colloquy 
with Sieur Landoys, Gilliatt was at St. Samp- 
son. 

He was troubled, even anxious. What could 
it be that had happened ? 

There was a murmur in St. Sampson like 
that of a startled hive. Everybody was at his 
door. The women were talking loud. There 
were people who seemed relating some occur- 
rence, and who were gesticulating. A group 
had gathered around them. The words could 
be heard, “What a misfortune!” Some faces 
wore a smile. 

Gilliatt interrogated no one. It was not in 
his nature to ask questions. He was, more- 
over, too much moved to speak to strangers. 
He had no confidence in rumours. He pre- 
ferred to go direct to the Brave'es. 

Iiis anxiety was so great that he was not 
even deterred from entering the house. 

The door of the great lower room opening 
upon the Quay, moreover, stood wide open. 
There' was a swarm of men and women on the 
threshold. Everybody was going in, and Gil- 
liatt went with the rest. 

Entering, he found Sieur Landoys standing 
near the door-posts. 

“You have heard, no doubt, of this event?” 

“No.” 

“I did not like to call it out to you on the 
road. It makes one like a bird of evil omen.” 

“What has happened?” 

“The Durande is lost.” 

There was a crowd in the great room. 

The various groups spoke low, like people in 
a sick-chamber. 

The assemblage, which consisted of neigh- 
bours, the first comers, curious to learn the 
news, huddled together near the door with a I 
sort of timidity, leaving clear the bottom of the 
room, where appeared Deruchette sitting and 
in tears. Mess Lethierry stood beside her. 

His back was against the wall at the end of ' 
the room. His sailor’s cap came down over 
his eyebrows A lock of gray hair hung upon 
his cheek. He said nothing. His arms were 
motionless ; he seemed scarcely to breathe. 
He had the look of something lifeless placed 
against the wall. 

It was easy to see in his aspect a man whose 
life had been crushed within him. The Du- 
rande being gone, Lethierry had no longer any t 
object in his existence. He had had a being j 
on the sea ; that being had suddenly foundered. 
What could he do nowf Rise every morning; j 
go to sleep every night. Never more to await 


the coming of the Durande ; to see her get 
under way, or steer again into the port. What 
was a remainder of existence without object? 
To drink, to eat, and then ? He had crowned 
the labours of his life by a masterpiece: won 
by his devotion a new step in civilization. The 
step was lost ; the masterpiece destroyed. To 
live a few vacant years longer! where would 
be the good ? Henceforth nothing was left for 
him to do. At his age men do not begin life 
anew. Besides, he was ruined. Poor old 
man ! 

Deruchette, sitting near him on a chair and 
weeping, held one of Mess Lethierry’ s hands in 
hers. Her hands were joined ; his hand was 
clenched fast. It was the sign of the shade 
of difference in their two sorrows. In joined 
hands there is still some token of hope, in the 
clenched fist none. 

Mess Lethierry gave up his arm to her, and 
let her do with it what she pleased. He was 
passive. Struck down by a thunderbolt, he had 
scarcely a spark of life left within him. 

There is a degree of overwhelmment which 
abstracts the mind entirely from its fellowship 
with man. The forms which come and go 
within your room become confused and indis- 
tinct. They pass by, even touch you, but 
never really come near you. You are far 
away ; inaccessible to them, as they to you. 
The intensities of joy and despair differ in this. 
In despair, we take cognizance of the world 
only as something dim and afar off ; we are in- 
sensible to the things before our eyes ; we lose 
the feeling of our own existence. It is in vain, 
at such times, that wji are flesh and blood ; our 
consciousness of life is none the more real ; we 
are become, even to ourselves, nothing but a 
dream. 

Mess Lethierry’s gaze indicated that he had 
reached this state of absorption. 

The various groups were whispering together. 
They exchanged information as far as they had 
gathered it. This was the substance of their 
news. 

The Durande had been wrecked the day be- 
fore in the fog on the Douvres, about an hour 
before sunset. With the exception of the cap- 
tain, who refused to leave his vessel, the crew 
and passengers had all escaped in the long-boat. 
A squall from the south-west springing up as 
the fog had cleared, had almost wrecked them 
a second time, and had carried them out to sea 
beyond Guernsey. In the night they had had 
the good fortune to meet with the “ Cashmere,* 
which had taken them aboard and landed them 
at St. Peter’s Port. The disaster was entirely 
the fault of the steersman Tangrouille, who was 
in prison. Clubin had behaved nobly. 


72 


TIIE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


The pilots, who had mustered in great force, 
pronounced the words “The Douvres” with a 
peculiar emphasis. “A dreary half-way house, 
that,” said one. 

A compass and a bundle of registers and 
memorandum-books lay on the table ; they were 
doubtless the compass of the Durande and the 
ship’s papers, handed by Clubin to Imbrancam 
and Tangrouille at the moment of the departure 
of the long-boat. They were the evidences of 
the magnificent self-abnegation of that man who 
had busied himself with saving these documents 
even in the presence of death itself — a little in- 
cident full of moral grandeur; an instance of 
sublime self- forgetfulness never to be forgotten. 

They were unanimous in their admiration of 
Clubin ; unanimous also in believing him to be 
saved after all. The “ Shealtiel” cutter had 
arrived some hours after the “Cashmere.” It 
was this vessel which brought the last items of 
intelligence. She had passed four-and-twenty 
hours in the same waters as the Durande. She 
had lain-to in the fog, and tacked about during 
the squall. The captain of the “ Shealtiel” was 
present among the company. 

This captain had just finished his narrative to 
Lcthierry as Gilliatt entered. The narrative 
was a true one. Towards the morning, the 
storm having abated and the wind becoming 
manageable, the captain of the “ Shealtiel” had 
heard the lowing of oxen in the open sea. This 
rural sound in the midst of the waves had natu- 
rally startled him. He steered in that direction, 
and perceived the Durande among the Douvres. 
The sea had sufficiently subsided for him to ap- 
proach. He hailed the wreck ; the bellowing of 
the. cattle was the sole reply. The captain of the 
“Shealtiel” was confident that there was no one 
aboard the Durande. The wreck still held to- 
gether well, and, notwithstanding the violence 
of the squall, Clubin could have passed the night 
there. He was not the man to leave go his hold 
very easily. He was not ihere, however; and 
therefore he must have been rescued. It was 
certain that several sloops and luggers, from 
Granville and St. Malo, must, after laying-to in 
the fog on the previous evening, have passed 
pretty near the rocks. It was evident that one 
of these had taken Clubin aboard. It was to be 
remembered that the long-boat of the Durande 
was full when it left the unlucky vessel ; that 
it was certain to encounter great risks ; that an- 
other man aboard would have overloaded her, 
and perhaps caused her to founder; and that 
these circumstances had no doubt weighed with 
Clubin in coming to his determination to remain 
on the wreck. His duty, however, once fulfilled, 
and a vessel at hand, Clubin assuredly would not 
have scrupled to avail himself of its aid. A 
hero is not necessarily an idiot. The idea of a 
suicide was absurd in connection with a man of 
Clubin’s irreproachable character. The culprit, 
too, was Tangrouille, not Clubin. All this was 
conclusive. The captain of the “Shealtiel” was 
evidently right, and everybody expected to see 
Clubin reappear very shortly. There was a 


project abroad to carry him through the town 
in triumph. 

Two things appeared certain from the nar- 
rative of the captain: Clubin was saved; the 
Durande lost. 

As regarded the Durande, there was nothing 
for it but to accept the fact ; the catastrophe was 
irremediable. The captain of the “ Shealtiel” 
had witnessed the last moments of the wreck. 
The sharp rock on which the vessel had been, 
as it were, nailed, had held her fast during the 
night, and resisted the shock of the tempest as 
if reluctant to part with its prey ; but in the 
morning, at the moment when the captain of 
the “ Shealtiel” had convinced himself that there 
was no one on board to be saved, and was about 
to wear off again, one of those seas which are 
like the last angry blows of a tempest had struck 
her. The wave lifted her violently from her 
place, and with the swiftness and directness of 
an arrow from a bow had thrown her against the 
two Douvres rocks. “An infernal crash was 
heaid,”said the captain. The vessel, lifted by 
the wave to a certain height, had plunged be- 
tween the two rocks up to her midship frame. 
She had stuck fast again, but more firmly than 
on the submarine rocks. She must have re- 
mained there suspended, and exposed to every 
wind and sea. 

The Durande, according to the statements of 
the crew of the “ Shealtiel,” was already three 
parts broken up. She would evidently have 
foundered during the night if the rocks had not 
kept her tip. The captain of the “Shealtiel” 
had watched her a long time with his spy-glass. 
He gave, with naval precision, the details of her 
disaster. The starboard quarter beaten in, the 
masts maimed, the sails blown from the bolt- 
ropes, the shrouds torn away, the cabin sky- 
lights smashed by the falling of one of the 
booms, the dome of the cuddy-house beaten in, 
the chocks of the long-boat struck away, the 
round-house overturned, the hinges of the rud- 
der broken, the trusses wrenched away, the quar- 
ter-cloths demolished, the bits gone, the cross- 
beam destroyed, the shear-rails knocked off, the 
stern-post broken. As to the parts of the cargo 
made fast before the foremast, all destroyed, 
made a clean sweep of, gone to ten thousand 
shivers, with top ropes, iron pulleys, and chains. 
The Durande had broken her back ; the sea 
now must break her up piecemeal. In a few 
days there would be nothing of her remaining. 

It appeared that the engine was scarcely in- 
jured by all these ravages— a remarkable fact, 
and one which proved its excellence. The cap- 
tain of the “ Shealtiel” thought he could affirm 
that the crank had received no serious injury. 
The vessel’s masts had given way, but the fun- 
nel had resisted everything. Only the iron 
guards of the captain’s gangway were twisted ; 
the paddle-boxes had suffered ; the frames were 
bruised, but the paddles had not a float missing. 
The machinery was intact. Such was the con- 
viction of the captain of the “ Shealtiel.” Im- 
brancam. the engineer, who was among the 


73 


THE TOILERS 

crowd, had the same conviction. The negro, 
more intelligent than many of his white com- 
panions, was proud of his engines. He lifted 
up his arms, opening the ten fingers of his 
black hands, and said to Lethierry, as he sat 
there silent, “ Master, the machinery is alive 
still!” 

The safety of Clubin seeming certain, and 
the hull of the Durande being already sacri- 
ficed, the engines became the topic of conversa- 
tion among the crowd. They took an interest 
in it as in a living thing. They felt a delight 
in praising its good qualities. “ That’s what I 
call a well-built machine,” said a French sailor. 
“Something like a good one,” cried a Guern- 
sey fisherman. “ She must have some good 
stuff in her,” said the captain of the “Sheal- 
tiel,” “ to come out of that affair with only a 
few scratches.” 

Bv degrees the machinery of the Durande 
became the absorbing object of their thoughts. 
Opinions were warm for and against. It had 
its enemies and its friends. More than one 
who possessed a good old sailing cutter, and 
who hoped to get a share of the business of the 
Durande, w r as not sorry to find that the Douvres 
rock had disposed of the new invention. The 
whispering became louder. The discussion grew 
noisy, though the hubbub was evidently a little 
restrained ; and now and then there was a si- 
multaneous lowering of voices out of respect to 
Lethierry’s death like silence. 

The result of the colloquy, so obstinately 
maintained on all sides, was as follows : 

The engines were the vital part of the vessel. 
To rescue the Durande was impossible ; but the 
machinery might still be saved. These engines 
■were unique. To construct others similar, the 
money was wanting ; but to find the artificer 
would have been still more difficult. It was 
remembered that the constructor of the ma- 
chinery was dead. It had cost forty thousand 
francs. No one would risk again such a sum 
upon such a chance, particularly as it was now 
discovered that steam-boats could be lost like 
other vessels. The accident of the Durande 
destroyed the prestige of all her previous suc- 
cess. Still, it was deplorable to think .that at 
that very moment this valuable mechanism was 
still entire and in good condition, and that in 
five or six days it would probably go to pieces, 
like the vessel herself. As long as this existed, 
it might almost be said that there was no ship- 
wreck. The loss of the engines was alone irre- 
parable. To save the machinery would be al- 
most to repair the disaster. 

Save the machinery! It was easy to talk of 
it, but who would undertake to do it? Was 
it possible, even ? To scheme and to execute 
are twfc different things ; as different as to dream 
and to do. Now if ever a dream had appeared 
wild and impracticable, it was that of saving the 
engines then imbedded between the Douvres. 
The idea of sending a ship and a crew to work 
upon those rocks w r as absurd. It could not be 
thought of. It was the season of heavy seas. 


OF THE SEA. 

In the first gale the chains of the anchors would 
be worn away and snapped upon the submarine 
peaks, and the vessel must be shattered on the 
rocks. That would be to send a second ship- 
wreck to the relief of the first. On the miser- 
able narrow height where the legend of the 
place described the shipwrecked sailor as having 
perished of hunger, there was scarcely room for 
one person. To save the engines, therefore, 
it would be necessary for a man to go to the 
Douvres, to be alone in that sea, alone in that 
desert, alone at five leagues from the coast, 
alone in that region of terrors, alone for entire 
weeks, alone in the presence of dangers foreseen 
and unforeseen — without supplies in the face of 
hunger and nakedness, without succour in the 
time of distress, without token gf human life 
around him save the bleached bones of the mis- 
erable being who had perished there in his mis- 
ery, without companionship save that of death. 
And besides, how was it possible to extricate 
the machinery? It would require not only a 
sailor, but an engineer ; and for what trials must 
he not prepare? The man who would attempt 
such a task must be more than a hero. He 
must be a madman ; for in certain enterprises, 
in which superhuman power appears necessary, 
there is a sort of madness which is more potent 
than courage. And after all, would it not bo 
folly to immolate one’s self for a mass of rusted 
iron ? No ; it was certain that nobody would 
undertake to go to the Douvres on such an er- 
rand. The engine must be abandoned like tho 
rest. The engineer for such a task would as<» 
suredly not be forthcoming. Where, indeed, 
should they look for such a man ? 

All this, or similar observations, formed the 
substance of the confused conversations of the 
crowd. 

The captain of the “ Shealtiel,” who had 
been a pilot, summed up the views of all by 
exclaiming aloud, 

“No; it is all over. The man does not ex- 
ist who could go there and rescue the machin- 
ery of the Durande.” 

“If I don’t go,” said Imbrancam, “it is be- 
cause nobody could do it.” 

The captain of the “ Shealtiel” shook his left 
hand in the air with that sudden movement 
which expresses a conviction that a thing is im- 
possible. * 

“ If he existed — ” continued the captain. 

Deruchette turned her head impulsively, and 
interrupted. 

“I would marry him,” she said, innocently. 

There Avas a pause. 

A man made his way out of the crowd, and 
standing before her, pale and anxious, said, 

“You would marry him, Miss Deruchette?” 

It was Gilliatt. 

All eyes were turned towards him. Mess 
Lethierry had just before stood upright, and 
gazed about him. His eyes glittered with a 
strange light. 

He took off his sailor's cap and threw it on 
the ground ; then looked solemnly before him, 


74 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


and without seeing any of the persons present, 
said, 

‘ ‘ De'ruchette should be his. I pledge my- 
self to it in God’s name.” 


II. 

MUCH ASTONISHMENT ON THE WESTERN COAST. 

The full moon rose at ten o’clock on the fol- 
lowing night ; but, however fine the night, how- 
ever favourable the wind and sea, no fisherman 
thought of going out that evening either from 
Hogue la Ferre, or Bourdeaux harbour, or IIou- 
mct Benet, or Platon, or Port Grat, or Vazon 
Bay, or Perrelle Bay, or Pezeries, or the Tielles 
or Saints’ Bay, or Little Bo, or any other port 
or little harbour in Guernsey ; and the reason 
was very simple. A cock had been heard to 
crow at noonday. 

When the cock is heard to crow at an extraor- 
dinary hour, fishing is suspended. 

At dusk on that evening, however, a fisher- 
man returning to Omptolle met with a remark- 
able adventure. On the height above Iloitmet 
Paradis, beyond the Two Brayes and the two 
Grunes, stands to the left the beacon of the 
Plattes Tougeres, representing a tub reversed; 
and to the right, the beacon of St. Sampson, 
representing the face of a man. Between these 
two, the fisherman thought that he perceived 
for the first time a third beacon. What could 
be the meaning of this beacon ? When had it 
been erected on that point? What shoal did it 
indicate? The beacon responded immediately 
to these interrogations. It moved. It was a 
mast. The astonishment of the fisherman did 
not diminish. A beacon would have been re- 
markable ; a mast was still more so : it could 
not be a fishing-boat. When everybody else 
was returning, some boat was going out. Who 
could it be ? and what was he about ? 

Ten minutes later, the vessel, moving slowly, 
came within a short distance of the Omptolle 
fisherman. He did not recognise it. He heard 
’ the sound of rowing : there were evidently only 
two oars. There was probably, then, only one 
man aboard. The wind was northerly. The 
man, therefore, was evidently paddling along in 
order to take the wind off Point Fontenelle. 
There he would probably take to bis sails. He 
intended then to double the Aucresse and Mount 
Crcvel. What could that mean ? 

The vessel passed, the fisherman returned 
home. On that same night, at different hours, 
and at different points, various persons scattered 
and isolated on the western coast of Guernsey 
observed certain facts. 

As the Omptolle fisherman was mooring his 
bark, a carter of seaweed about half a mile off, 
whipping his horses along the lonely road from 
the Clotures, near the Druid stones, and in the 
neighbourhood of the Martello Towers 6 and 7, 
saw far off at sea^in a part little frequented, be- 
cause it requires much knowledge of the waters, 


and in the direction of North Rock and the Ja- 
blonneuse, a sail being hoisted. He paid little 
attention to the circumstance, not being a sea- 
man, but a carter of seaweed. 

Half an hour had perhaps elapsed since the 
carter had perceived this vessel, when a plasterer 
returning from his work in the town, and passing 
round Pele'e Pool, found himself suddenly op- 
posite a vessel sailing boldly among the rocks 
of the Quenon, the Rousse de Mer, and the 
Gripe de Rousse. The night was dark, but the 
sky was light over the sea, an effect common 
enough ; and he could distinguish a great dis- 
tance in every direction. There was no sail 
visible except this vessel. 

A little lower, a gatherer of cray-fish, prepar- 
ing his fish-wells on the beach which separates 
Port Soif from the Point Enfer, was puzzled to 
make out the movements of a vessel between the 
Boue Corneille and the Moubrette. The man 
must have been a good pilot, and in great haste 
to reach some destination to risk his boat there. 

Just as eight o’clock was striking at the Ca- 
tel, the tavern-keeper at Coho Bay observed with 
astonishment a sail out heyond the Boue du Jar- 
din and the Grunettes, and very near the Su- 
sanna.and the Western Grunes. 

Not far from Cobo Bay, upon the solitary' 
point of the Iloumet of Vason Bay, two lovers 
were, lingering, hesitating before they parted for 
the night. The young woman addressed the 
young man with the words, “ I am not going be- 
cause I don’t care to stay with you : I’ve a great 
deal to do.” Their farewell kiss was interrupt- 
ed by r a good-sized sailing-boat which passed 
very near them, making for the direction of the 
Messellettes. 

Monsieur le Peyre des Norgiots, an inhabit- 
ant of Cotillon Pipet, w T as engaged about nine 
o’clock in the evening in examining a hole made 
by some trespassers in the hedge of his property 
called La Jennerotte, and his “ friquet planted 
with trees.” Even while ascertaining the amount 
of the damage, he could not help observing a 
fishing-boat audaciously making its way round 
the Crocq Point at that hour of night. 

On the morrow of a tempest, when there is 
always some agitation upon the sea, that route 
was hardly safe. It was rash to choose it, at 
least, unless the steersman knew all the chan- 
nels by heart. , 

At half past nine o’clock, at L’Equerrier, a 
trawler carrying home his net stopped for a time 
to observe between Colombelle and the Soufler- 
csse something which looked like a boat. The 
boat was in a dangerous position. Sudden gusts 
of wind of a very dangerous kind are very com- 
mon in that spot. The Soifleresse , or Blower, 
derives its name from the sudden gusts of wind 
which it seems to direct upon the vessels which 
by rare chance find their way thither. 

At the moment when the moon was rising, 
the tide being high and the sea being quiet, in 
the little strait of Li-Hou, the solitary keeper of 
the island of Li-Hou was considerably startled. 
A long black object slowly passed between the 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


moon and him. This dark form, high and nar- 
row, resembled a winding-sheet spread out and 
moving. It glided along the line of the top of 
the wall formed by the ridges of rock. The 
keeper of Li-Hou fancied that he had beheld the 
Black Lady. 

The White Lady inhabits the Tau de Pez 
d’Amont ; the Gray Lady, the Tau de Pez 
d’Aval ; the Red Lady, the Silleuse, to the north 
of the Marquis Bank ; and the Black Lady, the 
Grand Etacre, to the west of Li-Houmet. At 
night, when the moon shines, these ladies stalk 
abroad, and sometimes meet. 

That dark form might undoubtedly be a sail. 
The long groups of rocks on which she appeared 
to be walking might in fact be concealing the 
hull of a bark navigating behind them, and al- 
lowing only her sail to be seen. But the keeper 
asked himself/ what bark would dare, at that 
hour, to venture herself between Li-Hou and the 
Pecheresses, and the Angullieres and Le're'e 
Point? And what object could she have? It 
seemed to him much more probable that it was 
the Black Lady. 

As the moon was passing the clock-tower of 
St. Peter in the Wood, the sergeant at Castle 
Rocquaine, while in the act of raising the. draw- 
bridge of the castle, distinguished at the end of 
the bay beyond the Haute Canee, but nearer 
than the Sainbule, a sailing vessel which seemed 
to be steadily dropping down from north to 
south. 

On the southern coast of Guernsey, behind 
Pleinmont, in the curve of a bay composed en- 
tirely of precipices and rocky walls rising peak- 
shaped from the sea, there is a singular landing- 
place, to which a French gentleman, a resident 
of the island since 1855, has given the name of 
“The Port on the Fourth Floor,” a name now 
generally adopted. This port, or landing-place, 
which was then called the Moie, is a rocky pla- 
teau half formed by nature, half by art, raised 
about forty feet above the level of the waves, and 
communicating with the water by two large 
beams laid parallel in the form of an inclined 
plane. The fishing vessels are hoisted up there 
by chains and pulleys from the sea, and are let 
down again in the same way along these beams, 
which are like two rails. For the fishermen 
there is a ladder. The port was, at the time of 
our story, much frequented by the smugglers. 
Being difficult of access, it was well suited to 
their purposes. 

Towards eleven o’clock, some smugglers — 
perhaps the same upon whose aid Clubin had 
counted — stood with their bales of goods on the 
summit of this platform of the Moie. A smug- 
gler is necessarily a man on the look-out — it is 
part of his business to watch. They were aston- 
ished to perceive a sail suddenly make its ap- 
pearance beyond the dusky outline of Cape 
Pleinmont. It was moonlight. The smugglers 
observed the sail narrowly, suspecting that it 
might be some coast-guard cutter about to lie in 
ambush behind the Great Hanways. But the 
sail left the Hanways behind, passed to the 


75 

north-west of the Boue Blondel, and was lost in 
the pale mists of the horizon out at sea. 

“Where the devil can that boat be sailing?' 
asked the smuggler. 

That same evening, a little after sunset, some 
one had been heard knocking at the door of 
the old house of the Bu de la Rue. It was a 
boy wearing brown clothes and yellow stock- 
ings, a fact that indicated that he was a little 
parish clerk. An old fisherwoman prowling 
about the shore with a lantern in her hand had 
called to the boy, and this dialogue ensued be- 
tween the fisherwoman and the little clerk be- 
fore the entrance to the Bu de la Rue : 

“ What d’ye want, lad ?” 

“The man of this place.” 

“ He’s not there.” 

“Where is he?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Will he be there to-morrow ?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“Is he gone away?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

‘ ‘ I’ve come, good woman, from the new rector 
of the parish, the Reverend Ebenezer Caudray, 
who desires to pay him a visit.” 

“I don’t knoAv where he is.” 

“The rector sent me to ask if the man wno 
lives at the Bu de la Rue would be at home to- 
morrow morning.” 

“I don’t know.” 


III. 

A QUOTATION FROM THE BIBLE. 

During the twenty-four hours which fol- 
lowed, Mess Lethierry slept not, ate nothing, 
drank nothing. He kissed Deruchette on the 
forehead ; asked after Clubin, of whom there was 
as yet no news ; signed a declaration certified 
that he had no intention of preferring a charge 
against any one, and set Tangrouille at liberty 

All the morning of the next day he remained 
half supporting himself on the table of the of- 
fice of the Durande, neither standing nor sitting; 
answering kindly when any one spoke to him. 
Curiosity being satisfied, the Bravees had be- 
come a solitude. There is a good deal of cu- 
riosity generally mingled with the haste of con- 
dolences. The door had closed again, and left 
the old man again alone with Deruchette. The 
strange light that had shone in Lethierry’s eyes 
was extinguished. The mournful look which 
filled them after the first news of the disaster 
had relume. 1. 

Deruchette, anxious for his sake, had, on the 
advice of Grace and Douce, laid silently beside 
him a pair of stockings, which he had been 
knitting, sailor fashion, when the bad news had 
arrived. 

He smiled bitterly, and said, 

“They must think me foolish.” 

After a quarter of an hour’s silence, he add- 
ed, 




/ 


TG 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


These things are well when you are happy.” 

Deruchette carried away the stockings, and 
took advantage of the opportunity to remove 
also the compass and the ship’s papers which 
Lethierry had been brooding over too long. 

In the afternoon, a little before tea-time, the 
door opened, and two strangers entered, attired 
in black. One was old, the other young. 

The young one has, perhaps, already been 
observed in the course of this story. 

The two men had each a grave air, but their 
gravity appeared different. The old man pos- 
sessed what might be called state gravity ; the 
gravity of the young man was in his nature. 
Habit engenders the one, thought the other. 

They were, as their costume indicated, two 
clergymen, each belonging to the Established 
Church. 

The first fact in the appearance of the younger 
man which might have first struck the observer 
was that his gravity, though conspicuous in the 
expression of his features, and evidently spring- 
ing from the mind, was not indicated by his 
person. Gravity is not inconsistent with pas- 
sion, which it exalts by purifying it; but the 
idea of gravity could with difficulty be associa- 
ted with an exterior remarkable above all for 
personal beauty. Being in Holy Orders, he 
must have been at least five-and-twentv, but 
he seemed scarcely more than eighteen. He 
possessed those gifts at once in harmony with, 
and in opposition to each other. A soul which 
seemed created for exalted passion, and a body 
created for love. He was fair, rosy-fresh, slim, 
and elegant in' his severe attire, with the cheeks 
of a young girl, and delicate hands. His move- 
ments were natural and lively, though subdued. 
Everything about him w T as pleasing, elegant, 
almost voluptuous. The beauty of his expres- 
sion served to correct this excess of personal 
attraction. His open smile, which showed his 
teeth, regular and white as those of a child, had 
something in it pensive, even devotional. He 
had the gracefulness of a page, mingled with the 
dignity of a bishop. 

. His fair hair, so fair and golden as to be al- 
most effeminate, clustered over bis white fore- 
head, which was high and well-formed. A slight 
double line between the eyebrow’s awakened as- 
sociations with studious thought. 

Those who saw him felt themselves in the 
presence of one of those natures, benevolent, in- 
nocent, and pure, whose progress is in inverse 
sense with that of vulgar minds ; natures whom 
illusion renders w'ise, and whom experience 
makes enthusiasts. 

His older companion was no other than Doc- 
tor Jaquemin Herode. Doctor Jaquemin He- 
rode belonged to the High-Church ; a party 
whose system is a sort of popery without a pope. 
The Church of England w r as at that epoch la- 
bouring with the tendencies which have since 
become strengthened and condensed in the form 
of Puseyism. Doctor Jaquemin Herode be- 
longed to that shade of Anglicanism which is 
almost a variety of the Church of Rome. He 


w r as haughty, precise, stiff, and commanding. 
His inner sight scarcely penetrated outwardly. 
He possessed the spirit in the place of the letter. 
His manner w r as arrogant ; his presence impos- 
ing. He had less the appearance of a “Rever- 
end” than of a Monsiynore. His frock-coat w r as 
cut somewhat in the fashion of a cassock. His 
true centre would have been Rome. He W’as a 
born Prelate of the Ante-chamber. He seemed 
to have been created expressly to fill a'part in 
the Papal Court, to walk behind the Pontifical 
litter, with all the Court of Rome in cibitio pa- 
onazzo. The accident of his English birth and 
his theological education, directed more towards 
the Old than the New Testament, had deprived 
him of that destiny. All his splendours w r ere 
comprised in his preferments as Rector of St. 
Peter's Port, Dean of the Island of Guernsey, 
and Surrogate of the Bishop of Winchester. 
These were, undoubtedly, not without their glo- 
ries. These glories did not prevent M. Jaque- 
min Herode being, on the whole, a worthy man. 

As a theologian, he was esteemed by those 
who were cblc to judge of such matters ; he was 
almost an authority in the Court of Arches — 
that Sorbonne of England. 

He had the true air of erudition ; a learned 
contraction of the eyes; bristling nostrils ; teeth 
which showed themselves at all times ; a thin 
upper lip and a thick lower one. He was the 
possessor of several learned degrees, a valuable 
prebend, titled friends, the confidence of the 
bishop, and a Bible, which he carried always in 
his pocket. 

Mess Lethierry was so completely absorbed 
that the entrance of the tw T o priests produced no 
effect upon him, save a slight movement of the 
eyebrows. 

M. Jaquemin Herode advanced, bowed, al- 
luded in a few sober and dignified words to his 
recent promotion, and mentioned that he came 
according to custom to introduce among the in- 
habitants, and to Mess Lethierry in particular, 
his successor in the parish, the new r Rector of 
St. Sampson, the Rev. Ebenezer Caudray, hence- 
forth the pastor of Mess Lethierry. 

Deruchette rose. 

The young clergyman, who was the Rev. 
Ebenezer, saluted her. 

Mess Lethierry regarded Monsieur Ebenezer 
Caudray, and muttered, “A bad sailor.” 

Grace placed chairs. The two visitors seat- 
ed themselves near the table. 

Doctor Herode commenced a discourse. It 
had reached his ears that a serious misfortune 
had befallen his host. The Durande had been 
lost. He came as Lethierry’s pastor to offer 
condolence and advice. This shipwreck was 
unfortunate, and yet not without compensations. 
Let us examine our ow n hearts. Are w r e not 
puffed up with prosperity ? The waters of fe- 
licity are dangerous. Troubles must be sub- 
mitted to cheerfully. The ways of Providence 
are mysterious. Mess Lethierry was ruined, 
perhaps. But riches w ere a danger. You may 
have false friends ; poverty will disperse them, 




TIIE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


71 


and leave you alone. The Durande was re- 
ported to have brought a revenue of one thou- 
sand pounds sterling per annum. It was more 
than enough for the wise. Let us fly from 
temptations ; put not our faith in gold ; bow the 
head to losses and neglect. Isolation is full of 
good fruits. It was in solitude that Aiah dis- 
covered the warm springs while leading the 
asses of his father Lebeon. Let us not rebel 
against the inscrutable decrees of Providence. 
The holy man Job, after his misery, had put 
faith in riches. Who can say that the loss of 
the Durande may not have its advantages even 
of a temporal kind. He, for instance, Doctor 
Jaquemin He'rode, had invested some money in 
an excellent enterprise, now in progress at Shef- 
field. If Mess Lethierry, with the wealth which 
might still remain to him, should choose to em- 
bark in the same affair, he might transfer his 
capital to that town. It was an extensive man- 
ufactory of arms for the supply of the Czar, now 
engaged in repressing insurrection in Poland. 
There was a good prospect of obtaining three 
hundred per cent, profit. 

The word Czar appeared to awaken Lethierry. 
He interrupted Dr. Herode. 

“I want nothing to do with the Czar.” 

The Reverend He'rode replied, 

“Mess Lethierry, princes are recognised by 
God. It is written, ‘ Render unto Caesar the 
things which are Caesar’s.’ The Czar is Cae- 
sar.” 

Lethierry partly relapsed into his dream and 
muttered, 

“Caesar? who is Caesar? I don’t know.” 

The Rev. Jaquemin Herode continued his ex- 
hortations. He did not press the question of 
Sheffield. 

To contemn a Caesar was republicanism. He 
could understand a man being a republican. 
In that case he could turn his thoughts towards 
a republic. Mess Lethierry might repair his 
fortune in the United States even better than 
in England. If he desired to invest what re- 
mained to him at great profit, he had only to 
take shares in the great company for develop- 
ing the resources of Texas, which employed 
more than twenty thousand negroes. 

“I want nothing to do with slavery,” said 
Lethierry. 

“ Slavery,” replied the Reverend He'rode, “ is 
an institution recognised by Scripture. It is 
written, ‘If the master has beaten his slave, 
notljing shall be done to him, for he is his mon- 
ey.’ ” 

Grace and Douce at the door of the room 
listened in a sort of ecstasy to the words of the 
Reverend Doctor. 

The Doctor continued. He was, all things 
considered, as we have said, a worthy man ; and 
whatever his differences, personal or connected 
with caste, with Mess Lethierry, he had come 
very sincerely to offer him that spiritual and 
even temporal aid which he, Doctor Jaquemin 
He'rode, dispensed. 

If Mess Lethierry’s fortune had been dimin- 


ished to that point that he was unable to take a 
beneficial part in any speculation, Russian or 
American, why should he not obtain some gov- 
ernment appointment suited to him ? Thero 
were many very respectable places open to him, 
and the reverend gentleman was ready to rec- 
ommend him. The office of Deputy Vicomto 
was just vacant. Mess Lethierry was popular 
.and respected, and the reverend Jaquemin He- 
rode, Dean of Guernsey and Surrogate of the 
Bishop, would make an effort to obtain for Mess 
Lethierry this post. The Deputy Yicomte is 
an important officer. He is present as the rep- 
resentative of His Majesty at the holding of the 
Sessions, at the debates of the Cohue , and at ex- 
ecutions of justice. 

Lethierry fixed his eye upon Doctor He'rode. 

“I don’t like hanging,” he said. 

Doctor Herode, who, up to this point, had 
pronounced his words with the same intonation, 
had now a fit of severity ; his tone became 
slightly changed. 

“Mess Lethierry, the pain of death is of di- 
vine ordination. God has placed the sword in 
the hands of governors. It is written, ‘ An eye 
for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.* ” 

The Reverend Ebenezer imperceptibly drew 
his chair nearer to the Reverend Jaquemin, and 
said, so as to be heard only by him, 

“What this man says is dictated to him.” 

“ By whom ? By what?” demanded the Rev* 
erend Jaquemin Herode, in the same tone. 

The young man replied in a whisper, “By 
his conscience.” 

The Reverend He'rode felt in his pocket, drew 
out a thick little bound volume with clasps, and 
said aloud, 

“ Conscience is here.” 

The book was a Bible. 

The Doctor He'rode’s tone became softer 
“ His wish was to render a service to Mess Le- 
thierry, whom he respected much. As his pas- 
tor, it was his right and duty to offer counsel. 
Mess Lethierry, however, was free.” 

Mess Lethierry, plunged once more in his 
overwhelming absorption, no longer listened. 
Deruchette, seated near him, and thoughtful, 
also did not raise her eyes, and by her silent 
presence somewhat increased the embarrass- 
ment of a conversation not very animated A 
witness who says nothing is a species of inde- 
finable weight. Doctor He'rode, however, did 
not appear to feel it. 

Lethierry no longer replying; Doctor Herode 
expatiated freely. “Counsel is from man in- 
spiration is from God. In the counsels cf the 
priests there is inspiration. It is good to ac- 
cept, dangerous to refuse them. Sochoh was 
seized by eleven devils for disdaining the ex- 
hortations of Nathaniel. Tiburius was struck 
with a leprosy for having driven from his house 
the Apostle Andrew. Barjesus, a magician 
though he was, was punished with blindness for 
having mocked at the words of St. Paul. Elx- 
ar and his sisters, Martha and Martena, are in 
eternal torments for despising the warnings of 


78 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


Valencianus, who proved to them clearly that 
their Jesus Christ, thirty-eight leagues in height, 
was a demon. Aholibamah, who is also called 
Judith, obeyed the commands of Reuben, and 
Peniel listened to the counsels from on high, as 
their names indeed indicate. Reuben signifies 
son of the vision ; and Peniel, the face of God.” 

Mess Lethierry struck the table with his fist. 

“ Parbleu !” he cried ; “ it was my fault.” 

“What do you mean?” asked M. Jaquemin 
Herode. 

“ I say that it is my fault.” 

“ Your fault ? Why ?” 

“ Because I allowed the Durande to return 
on Fridays.” 

M. Jaquemin Herode whispered in the ear 
of M. Ebenezer Caudray, 

“ This man is superstitious.” 

He resumed, raising his voice, and in a di- 
dactic tone : 

‘ ‘ Mess Lethierry, it is puerile to believe in 
Fridays. You ought not to put faith in fables. 
Friday is a day just like any other. It is very 
often a propitious day. Melendez founded the 
city of Saint Augustin on a Friday ; it was on a 
Friday that Henry the Seventh gave his com- 
mission to John Cabot; the Pilgrims of the 
‘ Mayflower’ landed at Province Town on a 
Friday. Washington was born on Friday, the 
22d of February, 1732; Christopher Columbus 
discovered America on Friday, the 12th of Oc- 
tober, 1492.” 

Having delivered himself of these remarks, 
he rose. 

Caudray, whom he had brought with him, 
rose also. 

Grace and Douce, perceiving that the two 
clergymen were about to take their leave, open- 
ed the folding-doors. 

Mess Lethierry saw nothing — heard nothing. 

M. Jaquemin Herode said apart to M. Cau- 
dray, 

“He does not even salute us. This is not 
sorrow ; it is vacancy. He must have lost his 
reason.” 

He took his little Bible, however, from the 
table, and held it between his hands outstretch- 
ed, as one holds a bird in fear that it may fly 
away. This attitude awakened among the per- 
sons present a certain amount of attention. 
Grace and Douce leaned forward eagerly. 


His voice assumed all the solemnity of which 
it was capable. 

“ Mess Lethierry,” he began, “ let us not part 
without reading a page of the Holy Book. It 
is from books that wise men derive consolation 
in the troubles of life. The profane have their 
oracles ; but believers have their ready resource 
in the Bible. The first book which comes to 
hand, opened by chance, may afford counsel ; 
but the Bible, opened at any page, yields a rev- 
elation. It is, above all, a boon to the afflicted. 
Yes, Holy Scripture is an unfailing balm for 
their wounds. In the presence of affliction, it 
is good to consult its sacred pages — to open even 
without choosing the place, and to read with 
faith the passage which we find. What man 
does not choose is chosen bv God. He know- 
eth best what suiteth us. His finger pointeth 
invisibly to that which we read. Whatever be 
the page, it will infallibly enlighten. Let us 
seek, then, no other light, but hold fast to his. 
It is the word from on high. In the text which 
is evoked with confidence and reverence, often 
do we find a mysterious significance in our pres- 
ent troubles. Let us hearken, then, and obey. 
Mess Lethierry, you are in affliction, but I hold 
here the book of consolation. You arc sick at 
heart, but I have here the book of spiritual 
health.” 

The Reverend Jaquemin Herode touched the 
spring of the clasp, and let his finger slip be- 
tween the leaves. Then he placed his hand a 
moment upon the open volume, collected his 
thoughts, and, raising his eyes impressively, be- 
gan to read in a loud voice. 

The passage which he had lighted on was as 
follows : 

“ And Isaac went out to meditate in the field 
at the eventide, and he lifted up his eyes and 
saw and beheld the camels were coming. 

“And Rebekah lifted up her eyes, and when 
she saw Isaac she lighted off the camel. 

“For she had said unto the servant, What 
man is this that walketh in the field to meet 
us ? 

“And Isaac brought her into his mother Sa- 
rah’s tent, and took Rebekah, and she became 
his wife, and he loved her ; and Isaac was com- 
forted after his mother’s death.” 

Caudray and Deruchette glanced at each 
other. 




1 


♦ 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


79 


SECOND PART.-TIIE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


BOOK i. 

MALICIOUS GILLIATT. 


I. 

THE PLACE WHICH IS EAST TO REACH, BUT 
DIFFICULT TO LEAVE AGAIN. 

The bark which had been observed at so 
many points on the coast of Guernsey on the 
previous evening was, as the reader has guessed, 
the old Dutch barge or sloop. Gilliatt had 
chosen the channel along the coast among the 
rocks. It was the most dangerous way, but it 
Avas the most direct. To take the shortest route 
was his only thought. Shipwrecks will not 
wait ; the sea is a pressing creditor ; an hour’s 
delay may be irreparable. His anxiety was to 
arrive quickly to the rescue of the machinery in 
danger. 

One of his objects in leaving Guernsey was 
to avoid arousing attention. He set out like 
one escaping from justice, and seemed anxious 
to hide from human eyes. He shunned the 
eastern coast, as if he did not care to pass in 
sight of St. Sampson and St. Peter’s Port, and 
glided silently along the opposite coast, which 
is comparatively uninhabited. Among the 
breakers, it was necessary to ply the oars ; but 
Gilliatt managed them on scientific principles ; 
taking the water quietly, and dropping it with 
exact regularity, he was able to move in the 
darkness with as little noise and as rapidly as 
possible. So stealthy were his movements, that 
he might have seemed to be bent upon some 
evil errand. 

In truth, though embarking desperately in 
an enterprise which might well be called, im- 
possible, and risking his life with nearly every 
chance against him, he feared nothing but the 
possibility of some one rival in the work which 
he had set before him. 

As the day began to break, those unknown 
eyes which look down upon the world from 
boundless space might have beheld, at one of 
the most dangerous and solitary spots at sea, 
two objects, the distance between which was 
gradually decreasing, as the one was approach- 
ing the other. One, which was almost imper- 
ceptible in the wide movement of the waters, 
was a sailing boat. In this was a man. It 
was the sloop. The other, black, motionless, 
colossal, rose above the waves, a singular form. 
Two tall pillars issuing from the sea bore aloft 
a sort of cross-beam which was like a bridge 


between them. This bridge, so singular in 
shape that it was impossible to imagine what it 
was from a distance, touched each of the two 
pillars. It resembled a vast portal. Of what 
use could such an erection be in that open plain, 
the sea, which stretched around it far and wide ? 
It might have been imagined to be a Titanic 
Cromlech, planted there in mid-ocean by an im- 
perious whim, and built up by hands accustomed 
to proportion their labours to the abyss. Its 
wild outline stood well-def.ned against the clear 
skv. 

The morning light was growing stronger in 
the east ; the whiteness in the horizon deepened 
the shadow on the sea. In the opposite sky the 
moon was sinking. 

The two perpendicular forms were the Dou- 
vres. The huge mass held fast between them, 
like an architrave between two pillars, was the 
wreck of the Duran de. 

The rock, thus holding fast and exhibiting its 
prey, was terrible to behold. Inanimate things 
seem sometimes endowed with a dark and hos- 
tile spirit towards man. There was a menace 
in the attitude of the rocks. They seemed to 
be biding their time. 

Nothing could be more suggestive of haught- 
iness and arrogance than their whole appear- 
ance: the conquered vessel; the triumphant 
abyss. The two rocks, still streaming with the 
tempest of the day before, seemed like two 
wrestlers sweating from a recent struggle. The 
wind had sunk ; the sea rippled gently ; here 
and there the presence of breakers might be de- 
tected in the graceful streaks of foam upon the 
surface of the waters. A sound came from the 
sea like the murmuring of bees. All around 
was level except the jDouvres, rising straight, 
like two black columns. Up to a certain height 
they were completely bearded with seaweed; 
above this their steep haunches glittered at 
points like polished armour. They seemed 
ready to commence the strife again. The be- 
holder felt that they were rooted deep in mount- 
ains whose summits were beneath the sea. 
Their aspect was full of a sort of tragic power. 

Ordinarily the sea conceals her crimes. She 
delights in privacy. Her unfathomable deeps 
keep silence. She wraps herself in a mystery 
which rarely consents to give up its secrets. 
We know her savage nature, but who can tell 


80 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


the extent of her dark deeds ? She is at once 
open and secret; she hides away carefully, and 
cares not to divulge her actions ; wrecks a ves- 
sel, and, covering it with the waves, engulfs it 
deep, as if conscious of her guilt. Among her 
crimes is hypocrisy. She slays and steals, con- 
ceals her booty, puts on an air of unconscious- 
ness, and smiles. 

Here, however, was nothing of the kind. The 
Louvres, lifting above the level of the waters 
the shattered hull of the Durande, had an air 
of triumph. The imagination might have pic- 
tured them as two monstrous arms, reaching 
upward from the gulf, and exhibiting to the 
tempest the lifeless body of the ship. Their 
aspect was like that of an assassin boasting of 
his evil deeds. 

The solemnity of the hour contributed some- 
thing to the impression of the scene. There 
is a mystei'ious grandeur in the dawn, as of the 
border-land between the region of consciousness 
and the world, of our dreams. There is some- 
thing spectral in that confused transition time. 
The immense form of the two Louvres, like a 
capital letter XI, the Lurande forming its cross- 
stroke, nppeared against the horizon in all their 
twilight majesty. 

GilliaU was attired in his seaman’s clothing : 
a Guernsey shirt, woollen stockings, thick shoes, 
a homespun jacket, trowsers of thick stuff, with 
poekets, and a cap upon his head, of red worsted, 
of a kind then much in use among sailors, and 
known in the last century as a galerienne. 

He recognised the rocks, and steered towards 
them. 

The situation of the Lurande was exactly the 
contrary of that of a vessel gone to the bottom : 
it was a vessel suspended in the air. 

No problem more strange was ever presented 
to a salvor. 

It was broad daylight when Gilliatt nrived in 
the waters about the rock. 

As we have said, there was but little sea. 
The slight agitation of the water was due almost 
entirely to its confinement among the rocks. 
Every passage, small or large, is subject to this 
chopping movement. The inside of a channel 
is always more or less white with foam. Gil- 
liatt did not approach the Louvres without cau- 
tion. 

He cast the sounding-lead several times. 

He had a cargo to disembark. 

Accustomed to long absences, he had at home 
a number of necessaries always ready. He had 
brought a sack of biscuit, another of rye-meal, a 
basket of salt fish and smoked beef, a large can 
of fresh water ; a Norwegian chest painted with 
flowers, containing several coarse woollen shirts, 
his tarpaulin and his water-proof overalls, and 
a sheepskin which he was accustomed to throw 
at night over his clothes. On leaving the Bft 
de la Rue he had put all these things hastily 
into the barge, with the addition of a large loaf. 
In his hurry he had brought no other tools but 
his huge forge-hammer, his chopper and hatch- 
et, and a knotted rope. Furnished with a grap- 


pling-iron and with a ladder of that sort, the 
steepest rocks become accessible, and a good 
sailor will find it possible to scale the rudest es- 
carpment. In the island of Sark the visitor may 
see what the fishermen of the Havre Gosselin 
can accomplish with a knotted cord. 

His nets and lines, and all his fishing appara- 
tus, were in the barge. He had placed them 
there mechanically and by habit ; for he intend- 
ed, if his enterprise continued, to sojourn for 
some time in an archipelago of rocks and break- 
ers, where fishing-nets and tackle are of little 
use. 

At the moment when Gilliatt was skirting 
the great rock, the sea was retiring, a circum- 
stance favourable to his purpose. The depart- 
ing tide laid bare, at the foot of the smaller Lou- 
vre, one or two table-rocks, horizontal or only 
slightly inclined, and bearing a fanciful resem- 
blance to boards supported by crows. These 
table-rocks, sometimes narrow, sometimes broad, 
standing at unequal distances along the side of 
the great perpendicular column, were continued 
in the form of a tliin cornice up to a spot just 
beneath the Lurande, the hull of which stood 
swelling out between the two rocks. The wreck 
was held fast there as in a vice. 

This series of platforms was convenient for 
approaching and surveying the position. It was 
convenient for disembarking the contents of the 
barge provisionally ; but it was necessary to 
hasten, for it was only above water for a few 
hours. With the rising tide the table-rocks 
would be again beneath the foam. 

It was before these table-rocks, some level, 
some slanting, that Gilliatt pushed in and 
brought the barge to a stand. A thick mass 
of wet and slippery sea-wrack covered them, 
rendered more slippery here and there by their 
inclined surfaces'. 

Gilliatt pulled off his shoes and sprang naked- 
footed on to the slimy weeds, and made fast the 
1 arge to a point of rock. 

Then he advanced as far as he could along 
the granite cornice, reached the rock immedi- 
ately beneath the wreck, looked up and exam- 
ined it. 

The Lurande had been caught suspended, 
and, as it were, fitted in between the two rocks, 
at about twenty feet above the water. It must 
have been a heavy sea which had cast her there. 

Such effects from furious seas have nothing 
surprising for those who are familiar with the 
ocean. To cite one example only : On January 
25tli, 1840, in the Gulf of Stora, a tempest struck 
with its expiring force a brig, and casting it al- 
most intact completely over the broken wreck 
of the corvette “La Marne,” fixed it immova- 
ble, bowsprit first, in a gap between the cliffs. 

The Louvres, however, held only a part of the 
Lurande. 

The vessel, snatched from the waves, had 
been, as it were, uprooted from the waters by 
the hurricane. A whirlwind had wrenched it 
against the counteracting force of the rolling 
waves, and the vessel, thus caught in contrary 


THE TOILERS 

directions by the two claws of the tempest, had 
snapped like a lath. The after part, with the 
engine and the paddles, lifted out of the foam, 
and driven by all the fury of the cyclone into 
the defile of the Douvres, had plunged in up to 
her midship beam, and remained there. The 
blow had been well directed. To drive it in 
this fashion between the two rocks, the storm 
had struck it as with an enormous hammer. 
The forecastle, carried away and rolled down 
by the sea, had gone to fragments among the 
breakers. 

The hold, broken in, had scattered out the 
bodies of the drowned cattle upon the sea. 

A large portion of the forward bulwarks still 
hung to the riders of the larboard paddle-boxes, 
and by some shattered braces easy to strike off 
with the blow of a hatchet. 

Here and there, among beams, planks, rags 
of canvas, pieces of chains and other remains of 
wreck were seen lying about among the rugged 
fragments of shattered rock. 

Gilliatt surveyed the Durande attentively. 
The keel formed a roofing over his head. 

A serene sky stretched far and wide over the 
waters, scarcely wrinkled with a passing breath. 
The sun rose gloriously in the midst of the vast 
azure circle. 

From time to time a drop of water was de- 
tached from the wreck and fell into the sea. 


II. 

A CATALOGUE OF DISASTERS. 

The Douvres differed in shape as well as in 
height. 

Upon the Little Douvre, which was curved 
and pointed, long veins of reddish-coloured rock, 
of a comparatively soft kind, could be seen 
branching out and dividing the interior of the 
granite. At the edges of these red dikes were 
fractures favourable to climbing. One of these 
fractures, situated a little above the wreck, had 
been so laboriously worn and scooped out by the 
splashing of the waves, that it had become a 
sort of niche, in which it would have been quite 
possible to place a statue. The granite of the 
Little Douvre was rounded at the surface, and, 
to the feel at least, soft like touchstone; but 
this feeling detracted nothing from its durabili- 
ty. The Little Douvre terminated in a point 
like a horn. The Great Douvre, polished, 
smooth, glossy, perpendicular, and looking as 
if cut out by the builder’s square, was in one 
piece, and seemed made of black ivory. Not a 
hole, not a break in its smooth surface. The 
escarpment looked inhospitable. A convict 
could not have used it for escape, nor a bird for 
a place for its nest. On its summit there was a 
horizontal surface as upon “The Man Rock;” 
but the summit of the Great Douvre was inac- 
cessible. 

It was possible to scale the Little Douvre, but 
not to remain on the summit ; it would have 
F 


OF THE SEA. 81 

been possible to rest on the summit of the Great 
Douvre, but impossible to ascend it. 

Gilliatt, having rapidly surveyed the situation 
of affairs, returned to the barge, landed its con- 
tents upon the largest of the horizontal cornice 
rocks, made of the whole compact mass a sort 
of bale, which he rolled up in tarpaulin, fined a 
sling rope to it with a hoisting block, pushed the 
package into a corner of the rocks where th* 
waves could not reach it, and then clutching tha 
Little Douvre with his hands, and holding on 
with his naked feet, he clambered from projec- 
tion to projection, and from niche to niche, until 
he found himself level with the wrecked vessel 
high up in the air. 

Having reached the height of the paddles, he 
sprang upon the poop. 

The interior of the wreck presented a mourn- 
ful aspect. 

Traces of a great struggle were everywhere 
visible. There were plainly to be seen the 
frightful ravages of the. sea and wind. The 
action of the tempest is like the violence of a 
band of pirates. Nothing is more like the vic- 
tim of a criminal outrage than a wrecked ship 
violated and stripped by those terrible accom- 
plices, the storm-cloud, the thunder, the rain, 
the squall, the waves, and the breakers. 

Standing upon the dismantled deck, it was 
natural to dream of the presence of something 
like a furious stamping of the spirits of the 
storm. Everywhere around were the marks of 
their rage. The strange contortions of certain 
portions of the iron-work bore testimony to the 
terrific force of the winds. The between-decka 
were like the cell of a lunatic, in which every- 
thing has been broken. 

No wild beasts can compare with the sea for 
mangling its prey. The waves are full of tal- 
ons. The north wind bites, the billows devour, 
the waves are like hungry jaws. The ocean 
strikes like a lion with its heavy paw, seizing 
and dismembering at the same moment. 

The ruin conspicuous in the Durande presents 
the peculiarity of being detailed and minute. 
It was a sort of horrible stripping and plucking. 
Much of it seemed done with design. The be- 
holder was tempted to exclaim, “What wanton 
mischief!” The ripping of the planking was 
edged here and there artistically. This peculi- 
arity is common with the. ravages of the cyclone. 
To chip and tear away, such is the caprice of 
the great devastator. Its ways are like those of 
the professional torturer. The disasters which 
it causes wear a look of ingenious punishments. 
One might fancy it actuated by the worst pas- 
sions of man. It refines in cruelty like a sav- 
age. While it is exterminating it dissects bone 
by bone. It torments its victim, avenges itself, 
and takes delight in its work. It even appears 
to descend to petty acts of malice. 

Cyclones are rare in our latitudes, and are, 
for that reason, the more dangerous, being gen- 
erally unexpected. A rock in the path of a 
heavy wind may become the pivot of a storm. 
It is probable that the squall had thus rotated 


82 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


upon the point of the Douvres, and had turned 
suddenly into a waterspout on meeting the shock 
of the rocks, a fact which explained the casting 
of the vessel so high among them. When the 
cyclone blows, a vessel is of no more weight in 
the wind than a stone in a sling. 

The damage received by the Durande was 
like the wound of a man cut in twain. It was 
a divided trunk from which issued a mass of 
debris like the entrails of a body. Various 
kinds of cordage hung floating and trembling, 
chains swung clattering ; the fibres and nerves 
of the vessel were there naked and exposed. 
What was not smashed was disjointed. 

Fragments of the sheathing resembled curry- 
combs bristling with nails ; everything bore the 
appearance of ruin ; a handspike had become 
nothing but a piece of iron; a sounding-lead, 
nothing but a lump of metal ; a dead-eye had 
become a mere piece of wood ; a halliard, an 
end of rope ; a strand of cord, a tangled skein ; 
a bolt -rope, a thread in the hem of a sail. 
Everything around was the lamentable work of 
demolition. Nothing remained that was not 
unhooked, unnailed, cracked, wasted, warped, 
pierced with holes, destroyed ; nothing hung to- 
gether in the dreadful mass, but all was torn, 
dislocated, broken. There was that air of drift 
which characterizes the scene of all struggles — 
from the melees of men, which are called bat- 
tles, to the mele'es of the elements, to which we 
give the name of chaos. Everything was sink- 
ing and dropping away ; a rolling mass of planks, 
panelling, iron-work, cables, and beams had been 
arrested just at the great fracture of the hull, 
whence the least additional shock must have pre- 
cipitated them into the sea. What remained of 
her powerful frame, once so triumphant, was 
cracked here and there, showing through large 
apertures the dismal gloom within. 

The foam from below spat its flakes 1 contemp- 
tuously upon this broken and forlorn outcast of 
the sea. 


III. 

SOUND, BUT NOT SAFE. 

Gilliatt did not expect to find only a por- 
tion of the ship existing. Nothing in the de- 
scription, in other respects so precise, of the cap- 
tain of the “Shealtiel” had led him to anticipate 
this division of the vessel in the centre. It was 
probable that the “ diabolical crash” heard by the 
captain of the “ Shealtiel” marked the moment 
when this destruction had taken place under 
the blows of a tremendous sea. The captain 
had, doubtless, worn ship just before this last 
heavy squall; and what he had taken for a great 
sea was probably a waterspout. Later, when he 
drew nearer to observe the wreck, he had only 
been able to see the stern of the vessel — the re- 
mainder, that is to say, the large opening where 
the fore part had given way, having been con- 
cealed from him among the masses of rock. 

With that exception, the information given by 


the captain of the “ Shealtiel” was strictly cor- 
rect. The hull was useless, but the engine re- 
mained intact. 

Such chances are common in the history of 
shipwreck. The logic of disaster at sea is be- 
yond the grasp of human science. 

The masts, having snapped short, had fallen 
over the side ; the chimney was not even bent. 
The great iron plating which supported the ma- 
chinery had kept it together, and in one piece. 
The planks of the paddle-boxes were disjoint- 
ed, like the leaves of wooden sun-blinds, but 
through their apertures the paddles themselves 
could be seen in good condition. A few of 
their floats only were missing. 

Besides the machinery, the great stern cap- 
stan had resisted the destruction. Its chain 
was there, and, thanks to its firm fixture in a 
frame of joists, might still be of service, unless 
the strain of the voyal should break away the 
planking. The flooring of the deck bent at al- 
most every point, and w as tottering throughout 

On the other hand, the trunk of the hull, 
fixed between the Douvres, held together, as we 
have already said, and it appeared strong. 

There was something like derision in this 
preservation of the machinery ; something 
w r hieh added to the irony of the misfortune. 
The sombre malice of the unseen powers of 
mischief displays itself sometimes in such bitter 
mockeries. The machinery was saved, but its 
preservation did not make it any the less lost. 
The ocean seemed to have kept it only to de- 
molish it at leisure. It was like the playing of 
the cat with her prey. 

Its fate was to suffer there and to be dismem- 
bered day by day. It was to be the plaything 
of the savage amusements of the sea. It was 
slowly to dwindle, and, as it were, to melt aw’ay. 
For what could be done ? That this vast block 
of mechanism and gear, at once massive and 
delicate, condemned to fixity by its weight, de- 
livered up in that solitude to the destructive 
elements, exposed in the gripe of the rock to 
the action of the wdnd and wave, could, under 
the frown of that implacable spot, escape from 
slow destruction, seemed a madness even to 
imagine. 

The Durande was the captive of the Douvres. 

How could she be extricated from that posi- 
tion ? , 

How could she be delivered from her bond- 
age? 

The escape of a man is difficult; but w’hat 
a problem was this — the escape of a vast and 
cumbrous machinery. 


IV. 

A PRELIMINARY SURVEY. 

Gilliatt was pressed on all sides by urgent 
demands upon his labours. The most press- 
ing, however, was to find a safe mooring for 
the barge ; then a shelter for himself. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


83 


The Durande having settled down more on 
the larboard than on the starboard side, the 
right paddle-box was higher than the left. 

Gilliatt ascended the paddle-box on the right. 
From that position, although the gut of rocks 
stretching in broken angles behind the Douvres 
had several elbows, he was able to study the 
ground-plan of the group. 

This survey was the preliminary step of his 
operations. 

The Douvres, as we have already described 
them, were like two high gable ends, forming 
the narrow entrance to a straggling alley of 
small cliffs with perpendicular faces. It is not 
rare to find in primitive submarine formations 
these singular kinds of passages, which seem 
cut out with a hatchet. 

This defile was extremely tortuous, and was 
never without water, even in the low tides. A 
current, much agitated, traversed it at all times 
from end to end. The sharpness of its turn- 
ings was favourable or unfavourable, according 
to the nature of the prevailing wind; some- 
times it broke the swell and caused it to fall ; 
sometimes it exasperated it. This latter effect 
was the most frequent. An obstacle arouses 
the anger of the sea, and pushes it to excesses. 
The foam is the exasperation of the waves. 

The two chains of rocks, leaving between 
them this kind of street in the sea, formed 
stages at a lower level than the Douvres, grad- 
ually decreasing, until they sunk together at a 
certain distance beneath the waves. 

The stormy winds in these narrow and tor- 
tuous passages between the rocks are subjected 
to a similar compression, and acquire the same 
malignant character. The tempest frets in its 
sudden imprisonment. Its bulk is still im- 
mense, but sharpened and contracted; and it 
strikes with the massiveness of a huge club 
and the keenness of an arrow. It pierces even 
while it strikes down. It is a hurricane con- 
tracted, like the draught through the crevice of 
a door. 

There was another such gullet of less height 
than the gullet of the Douvres, but narrower 
still, and which formed the eastern entrance 
of the defile. It was evident that the double 
prolongation of the ridge of rocks continued the 
kind of street under the water as far as “The 
Man” rock, which stood like a square citadel 
at the extremity of the group. 

At low water, indeed, which was the time at 
which Gilliatt was observing them, the two rows 
of sunken rock showed their tips, some high and 
dry, and all visible and preserving their parallel 
without interruption. 

“The Man” formed the boundary, and but- 
tressed on the eastern side the entire mass of 
the group, which was protected on the opposite 
side by ther two Douvres. 

The whole, from a bird’s-eye view, appeared 
like a winding chaplet of rocks, having the 
Douvres at one extremity and “The Man” at 
the other 

The Douvres, taken together, were merely 


two gigantic shafts of granite protruding verti- 
cally and almost touching each other, and form- 
ing the crest of one of the mountainous ranges 
lying beneath the ocean. Those immense ridges 
are not only found rising out of the unfathoma- 
ble deep. The surf and the squall had broken 
it up and divided it like the teeth of a saw. 
Only the tip of the ridge was visible ; this was 
the group of rocks. The remainder, which the 
waves concealed, must have been enormous. 
The passage in which the storm had planted 
the Durande was the way between these two 
colossal shafts. 

This passage, zigzag in form as the forked 
lightning, was of about the same width in all 
parts. The ocean had so fashioned it. Its 
eternal commotion produces sometimes those 
singular regularities. There is a sort of geom- 
etry in the action of the sea. 

From one extremity to the other of the de- 
file, the two parallel granite walls confronted 
each other at a distance which the midship 
frame of the Durande measured exactly. Be- 
tween the two Douvres, the widening of the 
Little Douvre, curved and turned back as it 
was, had formed a space for the paddles. In 
any other part they must have been shattered 
to fragments. 

The high double faijade of rock within the 
passage was hideous to the sight. When, in 
the exploration of the desert of water which we 
call the ocean, we come upon the unknown 
world of the sea, all is uncouth and shapeless. 
So much as Gilliatt could see of the defile from 
the height of the wreck was appalling. In the 
rocky gorges of the ocean we may often trace a 
strange permanent impersonation of shipwreck. 
The defile of the Douvres was one of these 
gorges, and its effect was exciting to the imagi- 
nation. The oxydes of the rock showed on the 
escarpment here and there in red places, like 
marks of clotted blood; it resembled the splashes 
on the walls of an abattoir. Associations of the 
charnel-house haunted the place. The rough 
marine stones, diversely tinted — here by the 
decomposition of metallic amalgams mingling 
with the rock, there by the mould of dampness, 
manifested in places by purple scales, hideous 
green blotches, and ruddy splashes, awakened 
ideas of murder and extermination. It was like 
the unwashed walls of a chamber which had 
been the scene of an assassination ; or it might 
have been imagined that men had been crushed 
to death there, leaving traces of their fate. The 
peaked rocks produced an indescribable im- 
pression of accumulated agonies. Certain spots 
appeared to be still dripping with the carnage ; 
here the wall was wet, and it looked impossible 
to touch it without leaving the fingers bloody. 
The blight of massacre seemed everywhere. At 
the base of the double parallel escarpment, scat- 
tered along the water’s edge, or just below the 
waves, or in the worn hollows of the rocks, were 
monstrous rounded masses of shingle, some scar- 
let, others black or purple, which bore a strange 
resemblance to internal organs of the body; 


84 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


they might have been taken for human lungs, 
or heart, or liver, scattered and putrefying in 
that dismal place. Giants might have been dis- 
embowelled there. From top to bottom of the 
granite ran long red lines, which might have 
been taken for the oozings from a funeral bier. 

Such aspects are frequent in sea caverns. 


Y. 

A WORD UPON THE SECRET CO-OPERATIONS OF 
THE ELEMENTS. 

Those who, by the disastrous chances of sea 
voyages, happen to be condemned to a tempo- 
rary habitation upon a rock in mid-ocean, find 
that the form of their inhospitable refuge is by 
no means a matter of indifference. There is 
the pyramidal-shaped rock, a single peak rising 
from the water; there is the circle rock some- 
what resembling a round of great stones ; and 
there is the corridor rock. The latter is the 
most alarming of all. It is not only the cease- 
less agony of the waves between its walls or the 
tumult of the imprisoned sea ; there are also cer- 
tain obscure meteorological characteristics, which 
seem to appertain to this parallelism of two ma- 
rine rocks. The two straight sides seem a ver- 
itable electric battery. 

The first result of the peculiar position of 
these corridor rocks is an action upon the ain 
and the water. The corridor rock acts upon 
the waves and the wind mechanically by its 
form ; gal van re ally, by the different magnetic 
action rendered possible by its vertical height, 
its masses in juxtaposition and contrary to each 
other. 

This form of rock attracts to itself all the 
forces scattered in the winds, and exercises over 
the tempest a singular power of concentration. 

Hence there is in the neighbourhood of these 
breakers a certain accentuation of storms. 

It must be borne in mind that the wind is 
composite. The wind is believed to be simple, 
but it is by no means simple. Its power is not 
merely dynamic, it is chemical also ; but this is 
not all, it is magnetic. Its effects are often in- 
explicable. The wind is as much electrical as 
aerial. Certain winds coincide with the aurores 
boreales. The wind blowing from the bank of 
the Aiguilles rolls the waves one hundred feet 
high ; a fact observed with astonishment by Du- 
mont d’Urville. The corvette, he says, “ knew 
not what to obey.” 

In the South Seas the waters will sometimes 
become inflated like an outbreak of immense tu- 
mours ; and at such times the ocean becomes 
so terrible that the savages fly that they may no 
longer see it. The blasts in the North Seas are 
different. They are mingled with sharp points 
of ice; and their gusts, unfit to breathe, will 
blow the sledges of the Esquimaux backwards 
on the snow’. Other winds burn. It is the si- 
moon of Africa which is the typhoon of China 
and the samiel of India. Simoon, typhoon, and 


samiel are believed to be the names of demons. 
They descend from the heights of the mount- 
ains. A storm vitrified the volcano of Toluca. 
This hot wind, a whirlwind of inky colour, rush- 
ing upon red clouds, is alluded to in the Yedas : 
“Behold the black god, who comes to steal the 
red cows.” In all these facts we trace the pres- 
ence of the electric mystery. 

The wind indeed is full of it ; so is the waves. 
The sea, too, is composite in its nature. Un- 
der its w’aves of w ater which we see, it has its 
waves of force w'hich are invisible. Its constit- 
uents are innumerable. Of all the elements, 
the ocean is the most indivisible and the most 
profound. 

Endeavour to conceive this chaos so enor- 
mous that it dwarfs all other things to one level. 
It is the universal recipient, reservoir of germs 
of life, and mould of transformations. It amass- 
es and then disperses, it accumulates and then 
sows, it devours and then creates. It receives 
all the waste and refuse waters of the earth, 
and converts them into treasure. It is solid in 
the iceberg, liquid in the wave, fluid in the estu- 
ary. Regarded as matter, it is a mass ; re- 
garded as a force, it is an abstraction. It equal- 
izes and unites all phenomena. It may be 
called the infinite in combination. By force 
and disturbance it arrives at transparency. It 
dissolves all differences, and absorbs them into 
its own unity. Its elements are so numerous 
that it becomes identity. One of its drops is 
complete, and represents the whole. From the 
abundance of its tempests, it attains equilibrium. 
Plato beheld the mazy dances of the spheres. 
Strange fact, though not the less real, the ocean, 
in the vast terrestrial journey round the sun, be- 
comes, with its flux and reflux, the balance of the 
globe. 

In a phenomenon of the sea, all other phe- 
nomena are resumed. The sea is blown out of 
a waterspout as from a siphon ; the storm ob- 
serves the principle of the pump ; the lightning 
issues from the sea as from the air. Aboard 
ships dull shocks are sometimes felt, and an 
odour of sulphur issues from the receptacles of 
chain cables. The ocean boils. “The devil has 
put the sea in his kettle,” said De Ruyter. In 
certain tempests, which characterize the equi- 
noxes and the return to equilibrium of the pro- 
lific power of nature, vessels breasting the foam 
seem to give out a kind of fire, phosphoric lights 
chase each other along the rigging, so close 
sometimes to the sailors at their work that the 
latter stretch forth their hands and try to catch, 
as they fly, these birds of flame. After the 
great earthquake of Lisbon, a blast of hot air, 
as from a furnace, drove before it towards the 
city a wave sixty feet high. The oscillation ot 
the ocean is closely related to the convulsions 
of the earth. 

These immeasurable forces produce sometimes 
extraordinary inundations. At the end of the 
year 1864, one of the Maidive Islands, at a hund- 
red leagues from the Malabar coast, actually 
foundered in the sea. It sunk to the bottom 


85 


THE TOILERS 

like a shipwrecked vessel. The fishermen who 
sailed from it in the morning, found nothing 
when they returned at night; scarcely could 
they distinguish their villages under the sea. 
On this occasion boats were the spectators of 
the wrecks of houses. 

In Europe, where nature seems restrained by 
the presence of civilization, such events are rare, 
and are thought impossible. Nevertheless, Jer- 
sey and Guernsey originally formed part of Gaul, 
and at the moment while we are writing these 
lines, an equinoctial gale has demolished a great 
portion of the cliff' of the Firth of Forth in Scot- 
land. 

Nowhere do these terrific forces appear more 
formidably conjoined than in the surprising 
strait known as the Lyse-Fiord. The Lyse- 
Fiord is the most terrible of all the Gut Rocks 
of the ocean. Their terrors are there complete. 
It is in the Northern Sea, near the inhospitable 
Gulf of Stavanger, and in the 59th degree of 
latitude. The water is black and heavy, and 
subject to intermitting storms. In this sea, and 
in the midst of this solitude, rises a great som- 
bre street — a street for no human footsteps. 
None ever pass through there ; no ship ever 
ventures in. It is a corridor ten leagues in 
length, between two rocky walls of three thou- 
sand feet in height; Such is the passage which 
present^ an entrance to the sea. The defile has 
its elbows and angles like all these streets of the 
sea — never straight, having been formed by the 
irregular action of the water. In the Lyse- 
Fiord, the sea is almost always tranquil ; the 
sky above is serene ; the place terrible. Where 
is the wind? Not on high. Where is the 
thunder? Not in the heavens. The wind is 
under the sea; the lightnings within the rock. 
Now and then there is a convulsion of the wa- 
ter. At certain moments, when there is per- 
haps not a cloud in the sky, nearly half way up 
the perpendicular rock, at a thousand or fifteen 
hundred feet above the water, and rather on the 
southern than on the northern side, the rock 
suddenly thunders, lightnings dart forth, and 
then retire like those toys which lengthen out 
and spring back again in the hands of children. 
They contract and enlarge ; strike the opposite 
cliff, re-enter the rock, issue forth again, re- 
commence their play, multiply their heads and 
tips of flame, grow bristling with points, strike 
wherever they can, recommence again, and then 
are extinguished with a sinister abruptness. 
Flocks of birds fly wide in terror. Nothing is 
more mysterious than that artillery issuing out 
of the invisible. One cliff attacks the other, 
raining their lightning blows from side to side. 
Their war concerns not man. It signals the 
ancient enmity of two rocks in the impassable 
gulf. 

In the Lyse-Fiord, the wind whirls like the 
water in an estuary; the rock performs the 
function of the clouds, and the thunder breaks 
forth like volcanic fire. This strange defile is 
a voltaic pile ; its plates are the double line of 
cliffs. 


OF THE SEA. 

VI. 

A STABLE FOR THE HORSE. 

Gilliatt was sufficiently familiar with ma- 
rine rocks to grapple in earnest with the Dou- 
vres. Before all, as we have just said, it was 
necessary to find a safe shelter for the barge. 

The double row of reefs, which stretched in a 
sinuous form behind the Douvres, connected it- 
self here and there with other rocks, and sug- 
gested the existence of blind passages and hol- 
lows opening out into the straggling way, and 
joining again to the principal defile like brandi- 
es to a trunk. 

The lower part of these rocks was covered 
with kelp, the upper part with lichens. The 
uniform level of the seaweed marked the line 
of the water at the height of the tide, and the 
limit of the sea in calm weather. The points 
which the water had not touched presented those 
silver and golden hues communicated to marine 
granite by the white and yellow lichen. 

A crust of conoidical shells covered the rock 
at certain points, the dry rot of the granite. 

At other points in the retreating angles, 
where fine sand had accumulated, ribbed on its 
surface rather by the wind than by the waves, 
appeared tufts of blue thistles. 

In the indentations, sheltered from the winds, 
could be traced the little perforations made by 
the sea-urchin. This shelly mass of prickles, 
which moves about a living ball, by rolling on 
its spines, and the armour of which is composed 
of ten thousand pieces, artistically adjusted and 
welded together — the sea-urchin) which is popu- 
larly called, for some unknown reason, “Aris- 
totle’s Lantern,” wears away the granite with 
his five teeth, and lodges himself in the hole. 
It is in such holes that the samphire gatherers 
find them. They cut them in halves and eat 
them raw, like an oyster. Some steep their 
bread in the soft flesh. Hence its other name, 
“Sea-egg.” 

The tips of the further reefs, left out of the 
water by the receding tide, extended close un- 
der the escarpment of “The Man” to a sort of 
creek, enclosed nearly on all sides by rocky 
w r alls. Here was evidently a possible harbour- 
age. It had the form of a horseshoe, and 
opened only on one side to the east wind, which 
is the least violent of all winds in that sea lab- 
yrinth. The water was shut in there, and al- 
most motionless. The shelter seemed compar- 
atively safe. Gilliatt, moreover, had not much 
choice. 

If he wished to take advantage of the low wa- 
ter, it was important to make haste. 

The weather continued to be fine and calm. 
The insolent sea was for a while in a gentle 
mood. 

Gilliatt descended, put on his shoes again, 
unmoored the cable, re-embarked, and pushed 
out into the water. He used the oars, coasting 
the side of the rock. 

Having reached “ The Man” rock, he exam* 
ined the entrance to the little creek. 


8G 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


A fixed, wavy line in the motionless sea, a 
sort of wrinkle, imperceptible to any eye but 
that of a sailor, marked the channel. 

Gilliatt studied for a moment its lineament, 
almost indistinct under the water: then he 
steered off a little in order to veer at ease, and 
steer well into channel, and suddenly, with a 
stroke of the oars, he entered the little bay. 

He sounded. 

The anchorage appeared to be excellent. 

The sloop would be protected there against 
almost any of the contingencies of the sea- 
son. 

The most formidable reefs have quiet nooks 
of this sort. The ports which are thus found 
among the breakers are like the hospitality of 
the fierce Bedouin — friendly and sure. 

Gilliatt placed the sloop as near as he could 
to “The Man,” but still far enough to escape 
grazing the rock, and he cast his two anchors. 

That done, he crossed his arms and reflected 
on his position. 

The sloop was sheltered. Here was one 
problem solved ; but another remained. Where 
could he now shelter himself? 

He had the choice of two places : the sloop 
itself, with its corner of cabin, which was scarce- 
ly habitable, and the summit of the “The Man” 
rock, which was not difficult to scale. 

From one or other of these ^refuges it was 
possible at low water, by jumping from vock to 
rock, to gain the passage between the Douvres 
where the Durande was fixed almost without 
w r etting the feet. 

But low water lasts but a short while, and all 
the rest of the time he would be cut off either 
from his shelter or from the wreck by more than 
two hundred fathoms. Swimming among break- 
ers is difficult at all times ; if there is the least 
sea it is impossible. 

He was driven to give up the idea of shelter 
in the sloop or on “The Man.” 

No resting-place was possible among the 
neighbouring rocks. 

The summits of the lower ones disappeared 
twice a day beneath the rising tide. 

The summit of the higher ones were con- 
stantly swept by the flakes of foam, and prom- 
ised nothing but an inhospitable drenching. 

No choice remained but the wreck itself. 

Was it possible to seek refuge there ? 

Gilliatt hoped it might be. 


VII. 

A CHAMBER FOR THE VOYAGER. 

Half an hour afterwards, Gilliatt, having 
returned to the wreck, climbed to the deck, 
went below, descended into the hold, comple- 
ting the summary survey of his first visit. 

By the help of the capstan he had raised to 
the deck of the Durande the package which he 
had made of the lading of the sloop. The cap- 
stan had worked well. Bars for turning it w’ere 


not wanting. Gilliatt had only to take his 
choice among the heap of wreck. 

He found among the fragments a chisel, drop- 
ped, no doubt, from the carpenter’s box, and 
which he added to his little stock of tools. 

Besides this — for in poverty of appliances so 
complete everything counts for a little — he had 
his jack-knife in his pocket. 

Gilliatt worked the entire day on the w'reck, 
clearing away, propping, arranging. 

At nightfall he observed the following facts. 

The entire wreck shook in the wind. The 
carcass trembled at every step he took. There 
was nothing stable or strong except the portion 
of the hull jammed between the rocks which 
contained the engine. There the beams were 
powerfully supported by the granite w'alls. 

Fixing his home in the Durande w'ould be 
imprudent. It would increase the weight; but, 
far from adding to her burden, it was important 
to lighten it. To burden the wreck in any way 
was the very contrary of what he wanted. 

The mass of ruin required, in fact, the most 
careful management. It was like a sick man 
at the approach of dissolution. The wind would 
do enough to help it to its end. 

It was, moreover, unfortunate enough to be 
compelled to work there. The amount of dis- 
turbance which the wreck would have to with- 
stand would necessarily distress it, perhaps be- 
yond its strength. 

Besides, if any accident should happen in the 
night while Gilliatt was sleeping, he must nec- 
essarily perish with the vessel. No assistance 
w as possible ; all w r ould be over. In order to 
! help the shattered vessel, it was absolutely nec- 
essary to remain outside it. 

How to be outside, and yet near it, this was 
the problem. ► 

The difficulty became more complicated as 
he considered it. 

Where could he find a shelter under such 
conditions? 

Gilliatt reflected. 

There remained nothing but the tw r o Douvres. 
They seemed hopeless enough. 

From below' it was possible to distinguish 
upon the upper plateau of the Great Douvres a 
sort of protuberance. 

High rocks with flattened summits, like the 
Great Donvre and “The Man,” are a sort of 
decapitated peaks. They abound among the 
mountains and in the ocean. Certain rocks, 
particularly those which are met with in the 
open sea, bear marks like half- felled trees. 
They have the appearance of having received 
blows from a hatchet. They have been sub- 
jected, in fact, to the blows of the gale, that 
indefatigable pioneer of the sea. 

There are other still more profound causes 
of marine convulsions. Hence the innumera- 
ble bruises upon these primeval masses of gran- 
ite. Some of these sea giants have their heads 
struck off. 

Sometimes these heads, from some inexpli- 
cable causes, do not fall, but remain shattered 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


87 


on the summit of the mutilated trunk. This 
singularity is by no means rare. The Devil’s 
Rock, at Guernsey, and the Table, in the Val- 
ley of Anweiler, illustrate some of the most sur- 
prising features of this strange geological enigma. 

Some such phenomena had probably fashion- 
ed the summit of the Great Douvre. 

If the protuberance which could be observed 
on the plateau were not a regular irregularity in 
the stone, it must necessarily be some remaining 
fragment of the shattered summit. 

Ferhaps the fragment might contain some 
excavation ; some hole into which a man could 
creep for cover. Gilliatt asked for no more. 

But how could he reach the plateau ? How 
could he scale that perpendicular wall, hard and 
polished as a pebble, half covered with the 
growth of glutinous confeme, and having the 
slippery look of a soapy surface. 

The ridge of the plateau was at least thirty 
feet above the deck of the Durande. 

Gilliatt took out of his box of tools the knot- 
ted cord, hooked it to his belt by the grapnel, 
and set to work to scale the Little Douvre. The 
ascent became more difficult as he climbed. He 
had forgotten to take off his shoes, a fact which 
increased the difficulty. With great labour and 
difficulty, however, he reached the point. Safe- 
ly arrived there, he raised himself and stood 
erect. There was scarcely room for his two 
feet. To make it his lodging would be difficult. 
A Stylite might have contented himself there; 
Gilliatt, more luxurious in his requirements, 
wanted something more commodious. 

The Little Douvre, leaning towards the great 
one, looked from a distance as if it was saluting 
it, and the space between the Douvres, which 
was some score of feet below, was only eight or 
ten at the highest points. 

From the spot to which he had climbed, Gil- 
liatt saw more distinctly the rocky excrescence 
which partly covered the plateau of the Great 
Douvre. 

This plateau rose three fathoms at least above 
his head. 

A precipice separated him from it. The 
curved escarpment of the Little Douvre sloped 
away out of sight beneath him. 

Gilliatt detached the knotted rope from his 
belt, took a rapid glance at the dimensions, of 
the rock, and slung the grapnel up to the pla- 
teau. 

The grapnel scratched the rock, and slipped. 
The knotted rope with the hooks at its end fell 
down beneath his feet, swinging against the side 
of the Little Douvre 

Gilliatt renewed the attempt ; slung the rope 
further, aiming at the granite protuberance, in 
which he could perceive crevices and scratches. 

The cast was this time so neat and skilful that 
the hooks caught. 

Gilliatt pulled from below. A portion of the 
rock broke away, and the knotted rope with its 
heavy iron came down once more, striking the 
escarpment beneath his feet. 

Gilliatt slung the grapnel a third time. 


It did not fall. 

He put a strain upon the rope; it resisted. 
The grapnel was firmly anchored. 

The hooks had caught in some fracture of 
the plateau which Gilliatt could not see. 

It was necessary to trust his life to that un- 
known support. 

Gilliatt did not hesitate. 

The matter was urgent. He was compelled 
to take the shortest route. 

Moreover, to descend again to the deck of the 
Durande in order to devise some other step was 
impossible. A slip was probable, and a fall al- 
most certain. It was easier to climb than to 
descend. 

Gilliatt’s movements were decisive, as are 
those of all good sailors. He never wasted force. 
He always proportioned his efforts to the work 
in hand. Hence the prodigies of strength which 
he executed with ordinary muscles. His biceps 
was no more powerful than that of ordinary 
men, but his heart was firmer. He added, in 
fact, to strength which is physical, energy which 
belongs to the moral faculties. 

The feat to be accomplished was appalling. 

It was to cross the space between the two 
Douvres, hanging only by this slender line. 

Oftentimes, in the path of duty and devoted- 
ness, the figure of death rises before men to pre- 
sent these terrible questions : 

Wilt thou do this? asks the shadow. 

Gilliatt tested the cord again ; the grappling- 
iron held firm. 

Wrapping his left hand in his handkerchief, 
Gilliatt grasped the knotted cord with his right 
hand, which he covered with his left; then 
stretching out one foot, and striking out sharp- 
ly with the other against the rock, in order 
that the impetus might prevent the rope twist- 
ing, he precipitated himself from the height of 
the Little Douvre on to the escarpment of*the 
great one. 

The shock was severe. 

There was a rebound. 

His clenched fists struck the rocks in their 
turn ; the handkerchief had loosened, and they 
were scratched ; they had indeed narrowly es- 
caped being crushed. 

Gilliatt remained hanging there a moment 
dizzy. 

He was sufficiently master of himself not to 
let go his hold of the cord. 

A few moments passed in jerks and oscilla- 
tions before he could catch the cord with his 
feet ; but he succeeded at last. 

Recovering himself, and holding the cord at 
last between his naked feet as •with two hands, 
he gazed into the depth below. 

He had no anxiety about the length of the 
cord, which had many a time served him for 
great heights. The cord, in fact, trailed upon 
the deck of the Durande. 

Assured of being able to descend again, he be- 
gan to climb hand over hand, and still clinging 
with his feet. 

In a few moments he had gained the plateau. 


88 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


Never before had any creature without wings 
found a footing there. The plateau was cov- 
ered in parts with the dung of birds. It was an 
irregular trapezium, a mass struck off from the 
colossal granitic prism of the Great Douvre. 
This block was hollowed in the centre like a 
basin — a work of the rain. 

Gilliatt, in fact, had guessed correctly. 

At the southern angle of the block he found 
a mass of superimposed rocks, probably frag- 
ments of the fallen summit. These rocks, look- 
ing like a heap of giant paving-stones, would 
have left room for a wild beast, if one could 
have found its way there, to secrete himself be- 
tween them. They supported themselves con- 
fusedly one against the other, leaving interstices 
like a heap of ruins. They formed neither grot- 
toes nor caves, but the pile was full of holes 
like a sponge. One of these holes was large 
enough to admit a man. 

This recess had a flooring of moss and a few 
tufts of grass. Gilliatt could fit himself in it as 
in a kind of sheath. 

The recess at its entrance was about two 
feet high. It contracted towards the bottom. 
Stone coffins sometimes have this form. The 
mass of rocks behind lying towards the south- 
west, the recess was sheltered from the showers, 
but was open to the cold north wind. 

Gilliatt was satisfied with the place. 

The two chief problems were solved ; the 
sloop had a harbour, and he had found a shel- 
ter. 

The chief merit of his cave was its accessi- 
bility from the wreck. 

The grappling-iron of the knotted cord hav- 
ing fallen between two blocks, had become firm- 
ly hooked, but Gilliatt rendered it more diffi- 
cult to give way by rolling a huge stone upon 
it. 

He w r as now free to operate at leisure upon 
the Durande. 

Henceforth he was at home. 

The great Douvre w r as his dwelling ; the Du- 
rande was his workshop. 

Nothing was more simple for him than going 
to and fro, ascending and descending. 

He dropped down easily by the knotted cord 
on to the deck. 

The day’s work was a good one, the enter- 
prise had begun well ; he was satisfied, and be- 
gan to feel hungry. 

He untied his basket of provisions, opened 
his knife, cut a slice of smoked beef, took a bite 
out of his brown loaf, drank a draught from his 
can of fresh water, and supped admirably. 

To do well and eat well are two satisfac- 
tions. A full stomach resembles an easy con- 
science. 

His supper was ended, and there was still be- 
fore him a little more daylight. He took ad- 
; vantage of it to begin the lightening of the 
wreck — an urgent necessity. 

He had passed part of the day in gathering 
up the fragments. He put on one side, in the 
strong compartment w'hich contained the ma- 


chine, all that might become of use to him, suen 
as wood, iron, cordage, and canvas. What was 
useless he cast into the sea. 

The cargo of the sloop hoisted on to the deck 
by the capstan, compact as he had made it, was 
an encumbrance. Gilliatt surveyed the species 
of niche, at a height within his reach, in the 
side of the little Douvre. These natural clos- 
ets, not shut in, it is true, are often seen in the 
rocks. It struck him that it was possible to 
trust some stores to this depot, and he accord- 
ingly placed in the back of the recess his two 
boxes containing his tools and his clothing, and 
his two bags containing the rye-meal and the 
biscuit. In the front — a little too near the edge 
perhaps, but he had no other place — he rested 
his basket of provisions. 

He had taken care to remove from the box 
of clothing his sheepskin, his loose coat with a 
hood, and his waterproof overalls. 

To lessen the hold of the wind upon the 
knotted cord, he made the lower extremity fast 
to one of the riders of the Durande. 

The Durande being much driven in, this rider 
was bent a good deal, and it held the end of the 
cord as firmly as a tight hand. 

There was still the difficulty of the upper end 
of the cord. To control the lower part was 
well, but at the summit of the escarpment, at the 
spot where the knotted cord met the ridge of the 
plateau, there was reason to fear that it would 
be fretted and w'orn away by the sharp angle of 
the rock. 

Gilliatt searched in the heap of rubbish in re- 
serve, and took from it some rags of sailcloth, 
and from a bunch of old cables he pulled out 
some strands of rope-yarn with which he filled 
his pockets. 

A sailor would have guessed that he intended 
to hind with these pieces of sailcloth and ends 
of yarn the part of the knotted rope upon the 
edge of the rock, so as to preserve it from all 
friction — an operation which is called ‘ ‘ heck- 
ling. ” 

Having provided himself with these things, 
he drew on his overalls over his legs, put on 
his waterproof coat over his jacket, drew its hood 
over his red cap, hung the sheepskin round his 
neck by the two legs, and, clothed in this com- 
plete panoply, he grasped the cord, now firmly 
fixed to the side of the Great Douvre, and 
mounted to the assault of that sombre citadel in 
the sea. 

In spite of his scratched hands, Gilliatt easily 
regained the summit. 

The last pale tints of sunset were fading in 
the sky. It was night upon the sea below. A 
little light still lingered upon the height of the 
Douvre. 

Gilliatt took advantage of this remains of 
daylight to bind the knotted rope. He wound 
it round again and again at the part which pass- 
| cd over the edge of the rock, with a bandage of 
several thicknesses of canvas strongly tied at 
every turn. The whole resembled in some de- 
gree the padding which actresses place upon 


89 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


their knees, to prepare them for the agonies and 
supplications of the fifth act. 

This binding completely accomplished, Gil- 
liatt rose from his stooping position. 

For some moments, while he had been busied 
in his task, he had had a confused sense of a sin- 
gular fluttering in the air. 

It resembled, in the silence of the evening, 
the noise which an immense bat might make 
With the beating of its wings. 

Gilliatt raised his eyes. 

A great black circle was revolving over his 
head in the pale twilight sky. 

Such circles are seen in pictures round the 
heads of saints. These, however, are golden, 
on a dark ground, while the circle around Gil- 
liatt was dark, upon a pale ground. The effect 
was strange. It spread round the Great Douvre 
like the aureole of night. 

The circle drew nearer, then retired; grew 
narrower, and then spread wide again. 

It was an immense flight of gulls, sea-mews, 
frigate-birds, and sea-swallows — a vast multi- 
tude of affrighted sea-birds. 

The Great Douvre was probably their lodg- 
ing, and they were coming to rest for the night. 
Gilliatt had taken a chamber in their home. 
It was evident that their unexpected fellow- 
lodger disturbed them. 

A man there was an object they had never 
beheld before. 

Their wild flutter continued for some time. 

They seemed to be waiting for the stranger 
to leave the place. 

Gilliatt followed them dreamily with his 
eyes. 

The flying multitude seemed at last to give 
up their design. The circle suddenly took a 
spiral form, and the cloud of sea-birds settled 
down upon “ The Man” rock at the extremity 
of the group, where they seemed to be confer- 
ring and deliberating. 

Gilliatt, after settling down in his alcove of 
granite, and covering a stone for a pillow for 
his head, could hear the birds for a long time 
chattering one after the other, or croaking, as 
if in turns. 

Then they were silent, and all were sleeping 
— the birds upon their rock, Gilliatt upon his. 


VIII. 

IMPORTUNJEQUE VOLUCRES. 

Gilliatt slept well ; but he was cold, and 
this awoke him from time to time. He had 
naturally placed his feet at the bottom, and his 
head at the entrance to his cave. He had not 
taken the precaution to remove from his couch 
a number of angular stones, which did not by 
any means conduce to sleep. 

Now and then he half opened his eyes. 

At intervals he heard loud noises. It was 
the rising tide entering the caverns of the rocks 
with a sound like the report of a cannon. 


All the circumstances of his position con- 
spired to produce the effect of a vision. Hallu- 
cinations seemed to surround him. The vague- 
ness of night increased this effect, and Gilliatt 
felt himself plunged into some region of unre- 
alities. He asked himself if all were not a 
dream. 

Then he dropped to sleep again ; and this 
time, in a veritable dream, found himself at the 
Bu de la Rue, at the Bravees, at St. Sampson. 
He heard Deruchette singing; he was among 
realities. While he slept, he seemed to wake 
and live; when he awoke again, he appeared 
to be sleeping. 

In truth, from this time forward he lived in 
a dream. 

Towards the middle of the night a confused 
murmur filled the air. Gilliatt had a vague 
consciousness of it even in his sleep. It was 
perhaps a breeze arising. 

Once, when awakened by a cold shiver, he 
opened his eyes a little wider than before. 
Clouds were moving in the zenith ; the moon 
was flying through the sky, with one large star 
following closely in her footsteps. 

Gilliatt’s mind was full of the incidents of 
his dreams. The wild outlines of things in the 
darkness were exaggerated by this confusion 
with the impressions of his sleeping hours. 

At daybreak he w r as half frozen, but ho slept 
soundly. 

The sudden, daylight aroused him from a 
slumber which might have been dangerous. 
The alcove faced the rising sun. 

Gilliatt yawned, stretched himself, and sprang 
out of his sleeping-place. 

His sleep had been so deep that he could not 
at first recall the circumstances of the night be- 
fore. 

By degrees the feeling of reality returned, 
and he began to think of breakfast. 

The weather was calm, the sky cool and se- 
rene. The clouds were gone, the night-wind 
had cleared the horizon, and the sun rose bright- 
ly. Another fine day was commencing. Gil- 
liatt felt joyful. 

He threw off his overcoat and his leggins ; 
rolled them up in the sheepskin, with the wool 
inside, fastened the roll with a length of rope- 
yarn, and pushed it into the cavern for a shel- 
ter in case of rain. 

This done, he made his bed — an operation 
which consisted in removing the stones which 
had annoyed him in the night. 

His bed made, he slid down the cord on to 
the deck of the Durande and approached the 
niche where he had placed his basket of provi- 
sions. As it was very near the edge, the wind 
in the night had swept it down, and rolled it 
into the sea. 

It was evident that it would not be easy to 
recover it. There was a spirit of mischief and 
malice in a wind which had sought out his 
basket in that position. 

It was the commencement of hostilities. Gil* 
liatt understood the token. 


90 


THE TOILERS OF THE REA. 


To those who live in a state of rude famil- 
iarity with the sea, it becomes natural to regard 
the wind as an individuality, and the rocks as 
sentient beings. 

Nothing remained but the biscuit and the 
rye-meal, except the shell-fish, on which the 
shipwrecked sailor had supported a lingering 
existence upon “ The Man” rock. 

It was useless to think of subsisting by net or 
line fishing. Fish are naturally averse to the 
neighbourhood of rocks. The drag and bow net 
fishers would waste their labour among the 
breakers, the points of which would be destruc- 
tive only to their nets. 

Gilliatt breakfasted on a few limpets which 
he plucked with difficulty from the rocks. He 
narrowly escaped breaking his knife in the at- 
tempt. 

While he was making his spare meal, he was 
sensible of a strange disturbance on the sea. 
He looked around. 

It was a swarm of gulls and sea-mews which 
had just alighted upon some low rocks, and 
were beating their wings, tumbling over each 
other, screaming, and shrieking. All were 
swarming noisily upon the same point. This 
horde with beak and talons were evidently pil- 
laging something. 

It was Gilliatt’s basket. 

Rolled down upon a sharp point by the wind, 
the basket had burst open. The birds had 
gathered round immediately. They were car- 
rying off in their beaks all sorts of fragments of 
provisions. Gilliatt recognised from the dis- 
tance his smoked beef and his salted fish. 

It was their turn now to be aggressive. The 
birds had taken to reprisals. Gilliatt had rob- 
bed them of their lodging, they deprived him 
of his supper. 


IX. 

THE ROCK, AND HOW GILLIATT USED IT. 

A week passed. 

Although it was in the rainy season no rain 
fell, a fact for which Gilliatt felt thankful. But 
the work he had entered upon surpassed, in ap- 
pearance at least, the power of human hand and 
skill. Success appeared so improbable that the 
attempt seemed like madness. 

It is not until a task is fairly grappled with 
that its difficulties and perils become fully man- 
ifest. There is nothing like making a com- 
mencement for making evident how difficult it 
will be to come to the end. Every beginning 
is a struggle against resistance. The first step 
is an exorable undeceiver. A difficulty which 
we come to touch pricks like a thorn. 

Gilliatt found himself immediately in the 
presence of obstacles. 

In order to raise the engine of the Durande 
from the wreck in which it was three parts 
buried, with any chance of success — in order 
to accomplish a salvage in such a place and in 
such a season, it seemed almost necessary to be 


a legion of men. Gilliatt was alone ; a com* 
plete apparatus of carpenters’ and engineers 
tools and implements were wanted. Gilliatt had 
a saw, a hatchet, a chisel, and a hammer. He 
wanted both a good workshop and a good shed ; 
Gilliatt had not a roof to cover him. Provi- 
sions, too, were necessary, but he had not even 
j bread. 

Any one who could have seen Gilliatt work- 
! ing on the rock during all that first week might 
have been puzzled to determine the nature of 
his operations. He seemed to be no longer 
thinking either of the Durande or the two Dou- 
vres. He was busy only among the breakers ; 
he seemed absorbed in saving the smaller parts 
of the shipwreck. He took advantage of every 
high tide to strip the reefs of everything which 
the shipwreck had distributed among them. He 
went from rock to rock, picking up whatever 
the sea had cast among them — tatters of sail- 
cloth, pieces of iron, splinters of panels, shat- 
tered planking, broken yards — here a beam, 
there a chain, there a pulley. 

At the same time he carefully surveyed all 
the recesses of the rocks. To his great disap- 
pointment none were habitable. He had suf- 
fered from the cold in the night, where he lodged 
between the stones on the summit of the rock, 
and he would gladly have found some better 
refuge. 

Two of those recesses were somewhat exten- 
sive. Although the natural pavement of rock 
w'as almost everywhere oblique and uneven, it 
was possible to stand upright and even to walk 
within them. The w r ind and the rain wandered 
there at will, but the highest tides did not reach 
them. They w r ere near the Little Douvre, and 
w’ere approachable at any time. Gilliatt de- 
cided that one should serve him as a store-house, 
the other as a forge. 

With all the sail, rope-bands, and all the 
reef-earrings he could collect, he made packages 
of the fragments of wreck, tying up the w'ood 
and iron in bundles, and the canvas in parcels. 
He lashed all these together carefully. As the 
rising tide approached these packages, he began 
to drag them across the reefs to his storehouse. 
In a hollow of the rocks he had found a top rope, 
by means of which he had been able to haul 
even the large pieces of timber. In the same 
manner he dragged from the sea the numerous 
portions of chains which he found scattered 
among the breakers. 

Gilliatt worked at these tasks with astonish- 
ing activity and tenacity. He accomplished 
whatever he attempted— nothing could with- 
stand his ant-like perseverance. 

At the end of the week he had gathered into 
this granite warehouse of marine stores, and 
ranged into order, all this miscellaneous and 
shapeless mass of salvage. There was a corner 
for the tacks of sails and a corner for the sheets. 
Bowlines were not mixed with halliards ; par- 
rels were arranged according to their number 
of holes. The coverings of rope-yarn, unwound 
from the broken anchorings, were tied in bunch- 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


91 


es ; the dead-eyes without pulleys were separated 
from the tackle-blocks. Belaying-pins, bull’s- 
eyes, preventer- shrouds, down -hauls, snatch - 
blocks, pendents, kevels, trusses, stoppers, fire- 
booms, if they were not completely damaged by 
the storm, occupied different compartments. 
All the cross-beams, timber -work, uprights, 
stanchions, mast-heads, binding-strakes, port-lids 
and clamps, were heaped up apart. Wherever 
it was possible, he had fixed the fragments of 
planks from the vessel’s bottom one in the oth- 
er. There was no confusion between reef-points 
and nippers of the cable, nor of crow’s-feet with 
tow-lines ; nor of pulleys of the small with pul- 
leys of the large ropes; nor of fragments from 
the waist with fragments from the stern. A 
place had been reserved for a portion of the cat- 
harpings of the Durande, which had supported 
the shrouds of the topmast and the futtock- 
shrouds. Every portion had its place. The 
entire wreck was there classed and ticketed. It 
was a sort of chaos in a storehouse. 

A stay-sail, fixed by huge stones, served, 
though torn and damaged, to protect what the 
rain might have injured. 

Shattered as were the bows of the wreck, Gil- 
liatt had succeeded in saving the two cat-heads 
with their three pulley-wheels. 

He had found the bowsprit too, and had had 
much trouble in unrolling its gammoning; it 
was very hard and tight, having been, according 
to custom, made by the help of the windlass, and 
in dry weather. Gilliatt, however, persevered 
until he had detached it, this thick rope prom- 
ising to be very useful to him. 

He had been equally successful in discovering 
the little anchor, which had become fast in the 
hollow of a reef, where the receding tide had left 
it uncovered. 

In what had been Tangrouille’s cabin he had 
found apiece of chalk, which he preserved care- 
fully. He reflected that he might have some 
marks to make. 

A fire-bucket, and several pails in pretty good 
condition, completed his stock of working ma- 
terials. 

All that remained of the store of coal of the 
Durande he carried into the warehouse. 

In a week this salvage of debris ; the rock 
was swept clean, and the Durande was light- 
ened. Nothing remained now to burden the 
hull except the machinery. 

The portion of the fore-bulwark which hung 
to it did not distress the hull. It hung without 
dragging, being partly sustained by a ledge of 
rock. It was, however, large and broad, and 
heavy to drag, and would have encumbered his 
warehouse too much. This bulwarking looked 
something like a boat-builder’s stocks. Gilliatt 
left it where it was. 

He had been profoundly thoughtful during 
all this labour. He had sought in vain for the 
figure-head — the “doll,” as the Guernsey folks 
called it, of the Durande. It was one of the 
things which the waves had carried away for 
ever. Gilliatt would have given his hands to 


find it, if he had not had such peculiar need of 
them at the time. 

At the entrance to the storehouse and out- 
side were two heaps of refuse — a heap of iron 
good for forging, and a heap of wood good fo» 
burning. 

Gilliatt was always at work at early dawn 
Except his time of sleep he did not take a mo 
ment of repose. 

The wild sea-birds, flying hither and thither, 
watched over him at his work. 

o 

X. 

THE FORGE. 

The warehouse completed, Gilliatt construct 
ed his forge. 

The other recess which he had chosen had 
within it a species of passage like a gallery in 
a mine of pretty good depth. He had had at 
first an idea of making this his lodging, but the 
draught was so continuous and so persevering 
in this passage that he had been compelled to 
give it up. This current of air, incessantly re- 
newed, first gave him the notion of the forge. 
Since it could not be his chamber, he was de- 
termined that this cabin should be his smithy. 
To bend obstacles to our purposes is a great 
step towards triumph. The wind was Gilliatt’? 
enemy. Gilliatt set about making it his serv- 
ant. 

The proverb applied to certain kinds of men 
— “fit for everything, good for nothing”-- may 
also be applied to the hollows of rocks. They 
give no advantages gratuitously. On one side 
we find a hollow fashioned conveniently in the 
shape of a bath, but it allows the water to run 
away through a fissure. Here is a rocky cham- 
ber, but without a roof ; here a bed of moss, but 
oozy with wet ; here an arm-chair, but one of 
hard stone. 

The forge which Gilliatt intended was rough- 
ly sketched out by Nature, but nothing could 
be more troublesome than to reduce this rough 
sketch to manageable shape, to transform this 
cavern into a laboratory and smith’s shop. With 
three or four large rocks, shaped like a funnel, 
and ending in a narrow fissure, chance had 
constructed there a species of vast misshapen 
blower, of very different power to those huge old 
forge bellows of fourteen feet long, which poured 
out at every breath ninety-eight thousand inches 
of air. This was quite a different sort of con- 
struction. The proportions of the hurricane 
cannot be definitely measured. 

This excess of force was an embarrassment. 
The incessant draught was difficult to regulate. 

The cavern had two inconveniences : the wind 
traversed it from end to end ; so did the water. 

This was not the water of the sea, but a con- 
tinual little trickling stream, more like a spring 
than a torrent. 

The foam, cast incessantly by the surf upon 
the rocks sometimes more than a hundred feet 


$2 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


in the air, had filled with sea-water a natural 
cave situated among the high rocks overlooking 
the excavation. The overflowings of this reser- 
voir caused, a little behind the escarpment, a fall 
of water of about an inch in breadth, and de- 
scending four or five fathoms. An occasional 
contribution from the rains also helped to fill 
the reservoir. From time to time a passing 
floud dropped a shower into the rocky basin, 
always overflowing. The water was brackish, 
and unfit to drink, but clear. This rill of water 
fell in graceful drops from the extremities of 
the long marine grasses, as from the ends of a 
length of hair. 

Giliiatt was struck with the idea of making 
this water serve to regulate the draught in the 
cave. By the means of a funnel made of planks 
roughly and hastily put together to form two or 
three pipes, one of which was fitted with a valve, 
and of a large tub arranged as a lower reservoir, 
without checks or counterweight, and completed 
solely by air-tight stuffing above and air-holes 
below, Giliiatt, who, as we have already said, 
was handy at the forge and at the mechanic’s 
bench, succeeded in constructing, instead of the 
forge-bellow's, which he did not possess, an ap- 
paratus less perfect than what is known now-a- 
davs by the name of a “ cagniardelle,”but less 
rude than what the people of the Pyrenees an- 
ciently called a “trompe.” 

He had some rye-meal, and he manufactured 
with it some paste. He had some white cord, 
which picked out into tow. With this paste 
and tow, and some bits of w-ood, he stopped 
all the crevices of the rock, leaving only a little 
air-passage made of a powder-flask which he 
had found aboard the Durande, and which had 
served for loading the signal gun. This pow- 
der-flask was directed horizontally to a large 
stone, which Giliiatt made the hearth of the 
forge. A stopper made of a piece of tow served 
to close it in case of need. 

After this, Giliiatt heaped up the wood and 
coal upon the hearth, struck his steel against 
the bare rock, caught a spark upon a handful 
of loose tow, and having ignited it, soon lighted 
his forge fire. 

He tried the blower: it worked admirably. 

Giliiatt felt the pride of a Cyclops: he was 
the master of air, water, and fire. Master of 
the air; for he had given a kind of lungs to 
the wind, and changed the rude draught into a 
useful blower. Master of water, for he had 
converted the little cascade into a “trompe.” 
Master of fire, for out of this moist rock he had 
struck a flame. 

The cave being almost everywhere open to 
the sky, the smoke issued freely, blackening the 
curved escarpment. The rocks which seemed 
destined for ever to receive only the white foam, 
became now familiar with the blackening smoke. 

Giliiatt selected for an anvil a large smooth 
round stone, of about the required shape and 
dimensions. It formed a base for the blows of 
his hammer, but one that might fly and was 
very dangerous. One of the extremities of this 


block, rounded and ending in a point, might, 
for want of anything better, serve instead of a 
conoid bicorn; but the other kind of bicorn of 
the pyramidal form was wanting. It was the 
ancient stone anvil of the Troglodytes. The 
surface, polished by the waves, had almost the 
firmness of steel. 

He regretted not having brought his anvil. 
As he did not know that the Durande had been 
broken in two by the tempest, he had hoped to 
find the carpenter’s chest and all his tools gen- 
erally kept in the fore hold. But it w r as pre- 
cisely the fore part of the vessel which had been 
carried away. 

These two excavations which Giliiatt had 
found in the rock were contiguous. The ware- 
house and the forge communicated with each 
other. 

Every evening, when his work was ended, 
Giliiatt supped on a little biscuit, moistened in 
water, a sea-urchin or a crab, or a few chataignes 
de mer, the only r food to be found among those 
rocks ; and shivering like his knotted cord, 
mounted again to sleep in his cell upon the 
Great Douvre. 

The very materialism of his daily occupation 
increased the kind of abstraction in which he 
lived. To be steeped too deeply in realities 
is in itself a cause of visionary moods. His 
bodily labour, with its infinite variety of details, 
detracted nothing from the sensation of stupor 
which arose from the strangeness of his position 
and his work. Ordinary bodily fatigue is a 
thread which binds man to the earth, but the 
very peculiarity of the enterprise he was en- 
gaged in kept him in a sort of ideal twilight 
region. There were times when he seemed 
to be striking blows with his hammer in the 
clouds. At other moments, his tools appeared 
to him like arms. He had a singular feeling, as 
if he was repressing or providing against some 
latent danger of attack. Untwisting ropes, un- 
ravelling threads of yarn in a sail, or propping 
up a couple of beams, appeared to him at such 
times like fashioning engines of war. The thou- 
sand minute pains which he took about his sal- 
vage operations produced at last in his mind the 
effect of precautions against aggressions little 
concealed, and easy to anticipate. He did not 
know the words which express the ideas, but he 
perceived them. His instincts became less and 
less those of the worker ; his habits more and 
more those of the savage man. 

His business there was to subdue and diredt 
the powers of nature. He had an indistinct 
perception of it. A strange enlargement of his 
ideas! 

Around him, far as eye could reach, was the 
vast prospect of endless labour wasted and lost. 
Nothing is more disturbing to the mind than 
the contemplation of the diffusion of forces at 
work in the unfathomable and illimitable space 
of the ocean. The mind tends naturally to 
seek the object of these forces. The unceasing 
movement in space, the unwearying sea, the 
clouds that seem ever hurrying to some place, 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


93 


the rast mysterious prodigality of effort, all this 
is a problem. Whither does this perpetual 
movement tend? What do these winds con- 
struct? What do these giant blows build up? 
These bowlings, shocks, and sobbings of the 
storm, what do they end in ? and what is the 
business of this tumult? The ebb and flow of 
these questionings is eternal, as the flux and re- 
flux of the sea. Gilliatt could answer for him- 
self; his work he know, but the agitation which 
surrounded him far and wide at all times per- 
plexed him confusedly with its eternal ques- 
tionings. Unknown to himself, mechanically, 
by the mere pressure of external things, and 
without any other effect than a strange, uncon- 
scious bewilderment, Gilliatt, in this dreamy 
mood, blended his own toil somehow with the 
prodigious wasted labours of the sea. How in- 
deed, in that position, could he escape the in- 
fluence of that mystery of the dread, laborious 
ocean ? how do other than meditate, so far as 
meditation was possible, upon the vacillation of 
the waves, the perseverance of the foam, the im- 
perceptible wearing down of rocks, the furious 
beatings of the four winds? How terrible that 
perpetual recommencement, that ocean bed, 
those Dinaides-like clouds, all that travail and 
wearing for no end ? 

For no 'end ? Not so ! But for w r hat ? O 
Thou Infinite Unknown, Thou only knowest ! 


- XI. 

DISCOVERY. 

A rock near the coast is sometimes visited 
by men ; a rock in mid-ocean never. What 
object could any one have there ? No supplies 
can be drawn thence; no fruit-trees are there, 
no pasturage, no beasts, no springs of water fit- 
ted for man’s use. It stands aloft, a rock with 
its steep sides and summits above water, and its 
sharp points below. Nothing is to be found 
there but inevitable shipw’reck. 

This kind of rocks, which in the old sea dia- 
lect were called Isole f s, are, as we have said, 
strange places. The sea is alone there; she 
works her own will. No token of terrestrial 
life disturbs her. Man is a terror to the sea; 
she is shy of his approach, and hides from him 
her deeds. But she is bolder among the lone 
sea rocks. The everlasting soliloquy of the 
waves is not troubled there. She labours at 
the rocks, i repairs its damage, sharpens its 
% peaks, makes them rugged or renews them. 
She pierces the granite, wears down the soft 
stone, and denudes the hard ; she rummages, 
dismembers, bores, perforates, and grooves ; she 
fills the rock with cells, and makes it sponge- 
like, hollows out the inside, or sculptures it 
without. In thaf secret mountain which is 
hers, she makes to herself caves, sanctuaries, 
palaces. She has her splendid and monstrous 
vegetation, composed of floating plants which 
bite, and of monsters which take root ; and she 


hides away all this terrible magnificence in the 
twilight of her deeps. Among the isolated 
rocks no eye watches over her ; no spy embar- 
rasses her movements. It is there that she de- 
velops at liberty her mysterious side, which is 
inaccessible to man. Here she keeps all strange 
secretions of life. Here that the unknown won- 
ders of the sea are assembled. 

Promontories, forelands, capes, headlands, 
breakers, and shoals, are veritable construc- 
tions. The geological changes of the earth are 
trifling compared with the vast operations of 
the ocean. These breakers, these habitations 
in the sea, these pyramids, and spouts of the 
foam, are the practicers of a mysterious art 
which the author of this book has somewhere 
called “the Art of Nature.” Their style is 
known by its vastness. The effects of chance 
seem here design. Its works are multiform. 
They abound in the mazy entanglement of the 
rock-coral groves, the sublimity of the cathe- 
dral, the extravagance of the pagoda, the ampin 
tude of the mountain, the delicacy of the jew- 
eller’s work, the horror of the sepulchre. They 
are filled with cells like the wasps’ nest, with 
dens like menageries, with subterranean pas- 
sages like the haunts, of moles, with dungeons 
like Bastilles, with ambuscades like a camp. 
They have their doors, but they are barricaded ; 
their columns, but they are shattered ; their 
towers, but they are tottering; their bridges, 
but they are broken. Their compartments are 
unaccommodating ; these are fitted for the birds 
only, those only for fish. They are impassable. 
Their architectural style is variable and incon- 
sistent ; it regards or disregards at will the laws 
of equilibrium, breaks off, stops short, begins in 
the form of an arehivolt, and ends in an archi- 
trave, block on block. Enceladus is the mason. 
A wondrous science of dynamics exhibits here 
its problems ready solved. Fearful overhang- 
ing blocks threaten, but fall not: the human 
mind cannot guess w r hat power supports their 
bewildering masses. Blind entrances, gaps, 
and ponderous suspensions multiply and vary 
infinitely. The laws which regulate this Babel 
baffle human inductions. The great unknown 
architect plans nothing, but succeeds in all. 
Rocks massed together in confusion form a 
monstrous monument, defy reason, yet maintain 
equilibrium. Here is something more than 
strength; it is eternity. But order is wanting. 
The wild tumult of the waves seems to have 
passed into the wilderness of stone. It is like 
a tempest petrified and fixed for ever. Noth- 
ing is more impressive than thaf wild architec- 
ture ; always standing, yet always seeming to 
fall ; in which everything appears to give sup- 
port, and yet to withdraw it. A struggle be- 
tween opposing lines has resulted in the con- 
struction of an edifice, filled .with traces of the 
efforts of those old antagonists, the ocean and 
the storm. 

This architecture has its terrible master- 
pieces, of which the Douvres rock was one. 

The sea had fashioned and perfected it with 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


94 

a sinister solicitude. The snarling waters licked 
it into shape. It was hideous, treacherous, dark, 
full of hollows. 

It had a complete row of submarine caverns 
ramifying and losing themselves in unfathomed 
depths. Some of the orifices of this labyrinth 
of passages were left exposed by the low tides. 
A man might enter there, but at his risk and 
peril. 

Gilliatt determined to explore all these grot- 
toes for the purpose of his salvage labour. 
There was not one which was not repulsive. 
Everywhere about the caverns that strange as- 
pect of an abattoir, those singular traces of 
slaughter appeared again in all the exaggera- 
tion of the ocean. No one who has not seen in 
excavations of this kind, upon the walls of ev- 
erlasting granite, these hideous natural frescoes, 
can form a notion of their singularity. 

These pitiless caverns, too, were false and sly. 
Woe betide him who would loiter there. The 
rising tide filled them to their roofs. 

Rock limpets and edible mosses abounded 
among them. 

They were obstructed by quantities of shin- 
gle, heaped together in their recesses. Some 
of their huge smooth stones weighed more than 
a ton. They were of every proportion and of 
every hue ; but the greater part were blood-ccl- 
oured. Some, covered with a hairy and glutin- 
ous sea-weed, seemed like large green moles bor- 
ing away into the rock. 

Several of the caverns terminated abruptly 
in the form of a demi-cupola. Others, main 
arteries of a mysterious circulation, lengthened 
out in the rock in dark and tortuous fissures. 
They were the alleys of the submarine city ; but 
they gradually contracted from their entrances, 
and at length left no w r ay for a man to pass. 
Peering in by the help of a lighted torch, he 
could see nothing but dark hollows dripping 
with moisture. 

One day, Gilliatt, exploring, ventured into 
one of these fissures. The state of the tide fa- 
voured the attempt. It was a beautiful day of 
calm and sunshine. There was no fear of any 
accident from the sea to increase the danger. 

Two necessities, as we have said, compelled 
him to undertake these explorations. He had 
to gather fragments of wreck and other things 
to aid him in his labour, and to search for crabs 
and cray-fish for his food. Shell-fish had be- 
gun to fail him on the rocks. 

The fissure was narrow, and the passage dif- 
ficult. Gilliatt could see daylight beyond. He 
made an effort, contorted himself as much as he 
could, and penetrated into the cave as far as he 
was able. 

He had reached, without suspecting it, the in- 
terior of the rock, upon the point of which Clu- 
bin had driven the Durande. Though abrupt 
and almost inaccessible without, it was hollowed 
within. It was full of galleries, pits, and cham- 
bers, like the tomb of an Egyptian king. This 
network of caverns was one of the most com- 
plicated of all that labyrinth, a labour of the 


water, the undermining of the restless sea. The 
branches of the subterranean maze probably 
communicated with the sea without by more 
than one issue, some gaping at the level of the 
waves, the other profound and invisible. It was 
near here, but Gilliatt knew it not, that Clubin 
had dived into the sea. 

In this crocodile cave — where crocodiles, it 
is true, were not among the dangers — Gilliatt 
wound about, clambered, struck his head occa- 
sionally, bent low and rose again, lost his foot- 
ing and regained it many times, advancing la- 
boriously. By degrees the gallery widened ; a 
glimmer of daylight appeared, and he found 
himself suddenly at the entrance to a cavern 
of a singular kind. 

XII. 

THE INTERIOR OF AN EDIFICE UNDER THE SEA. 

The gleam of daylight was fortunate. 

One step further, and Gilliatt must have fall- 
en into a pool, perhaps Avithout bottom. The 
Avaters of these cavern pools are so cold and par- 
alyzing as to prove fatal to the strongest SAvim- 
mers. 

There is, moreover, no means of remounting, 
or of hanging on to any part of their steep Avails. 

Gilliatt stopped short. The crevice from 
which he had just issued ended in a narroAv and 
slippery projection — a species of corbel in the 
peaked Avail. He leaned against the side and 
surveyed it. 

He was in a large cave. Over his head was 
a roofing not unlike the inside of a vast skull, 
which might have been imagined to have been 
recently dissected. The dripping ribs of the 
striated indentations of the roof seemed to imi- 
tate the branching fibres and jagged sutures of 
the bony cranium. A stony ceiling and a Ava- 
tery floor. The rippled Avaters bctAveen the 
four Avails of the cave Avere like AvaA r / paving 
tiles. The grotto Avas shut in on all sides. 
Not a Avindow, not even an air-hole visible. 
No breach in the Avail, no crack in the roof. 
The light came from belotv and through the 
water, a strange, sombre light. 

Gilliatt, the pupils of Avhose eyes had con- 
tracted during his explorations of the dusky 
corridor, could distinguish everything about 
him in the pale glimmer. 

He was familiar, from having often visited 
them, with the caves of Pltmont in Jersey, the 
Creaux-Maillc at Guernsey, the Boutiques at 
Sark ; but none of these marvellous caA'erns 
could compare with the subterranean and sub- 
marine chamber into Avhich he had made his 
way. 

Under theAvater at 1 is feet Gilliatt could see 
a sort of drowned arch. This arch, a natural 
ogive fashioned by the AvaA'es, Avas glittering 
between its two dark and profound supports. 
It Avas by this submerged porch that the day- 
light entered into the cavern from the open sea. 
A strange light shooting upAvard from a gulf. 


95 


THE TOILERS 

The glimmer spread out beneath the waters 
like a large fan, and was reflected on the rocks. 
Its direct rays, divided into long, broad shafts, 
appeared in strong relief against the darkness 
below, and becoming brighter or more dull from 
one rock to another, looked as if seen here and 
there through panes of glass. There was light 
in that cave, it is true, but it was the light 
that was unearthly. The beholder might have 
dreamed that he had descended in some other 
planet. The glimmer was an enigma, like the 
glaucous light from the eye-pupil of a Sphinx. 
The whole cave represented the interior of a 
death’s head of enormous proportions, and of a 
strange splendour. The vault was the hollow 
of the brain, the arch the mouth ; the sockets 
of the eyes were wanting. This mouth, alter- 
nately swallowing and rendering up the flux 
and reflux through its mouth wide opened to 
the full noonday without, seemed to drink in 
the light and vomit forth bitterness — a type of 
some beings intelligent and evil. The light, in 
traversing this inlet through the vitreous medi- 
um of the sea-water, became green, like a ray 
of starlight from Aldebaran. The water, filled 
with this moist light, appeared like a liquid 
emerald. A tint of aqua-marina of marvelous 
delicacy spread a soft hue throughout the cav- 
ern. The roof, with its cerebral lodes, and its 
rampant ramifications, like the fibres of nerves, 
gave out a tender reflection of chrysoprase. 
The ripples reflected on the roof were falling in 
order and dissolving again incessantly, and en- 
larging and contracting their glittering scales 
in a mysterious and mazy dance. They gave 
the beholder an impression of something weird 
and spectral : he wondered what prey secured, 
or what expectation about to be realized moved 
with a joyous thrill this magnificent network 
of living fire. From the projections of the 
vault and the angles of the rock hung lengths 
of delicate fibrous plants, bathing their roots, 
probably- through the granite, in some upper 
pool of water, and distilling from their silky 
ends, one after the other, a drop of water like 
a pearl. These drops fell in the water now and 
then with a gentle splash. The effect of the 
scene was singular. Nothing more beautiful 
could be imagined ; nothing more mournful 
could anywhere be found. 

It was a wondrous palace, in which death sat 
smiling and content. 


XIII. 

WHAT WAS SEEN THERE ; AND WHAT PER- 
CEIVED DIMLY. 

A place of shade, which yet dazzled the 
eyes — such was this surprising cavern. 

The beating of the sea made itself felt through- 
out the cavern. The oscillation without raised 
and depressed the level of the waters within 
with the regularity of respiration. A mysteri- 
ous spirit seemed to fill this great organism, as 
it swelled and subsided in silence. 


OF THE SEA. 

The water had a magical transparency, and 
Gilliatt distinguished at various depths sub- 
merged recesses, and surfaces of jutting rocks 
ever of a deeper and a deeper green. Certain 
dark hollows, too, were there, probably too deep 
for soundings. 

On each side of the submarine porch, rude 
elliptical arches, filled with shallows, indicated 
the position of small lateral caves, low alcoves 
of the central cavern, accessible, perhaps, at cer- 
tain tides. These openings had roofs in the 
form of inclined planes, and at angles more or 
less acute. Little sandy beaches of a few feet 
wide, laid bare by the action of the water, stretch- 
ed inward, and were lost in these recesses. 

Here and there sea-weeds of more than a 
fathom in length undulated beneath the water, 
like the waving of long tresses in the wind ; and 
there were glimpses of a forest of sea-plants. 

Above and below the surface of the water, 
the w-all of the cavern from top to bottom — from 
the vault down to the depth at which it became 
invisible — was tapestried with that prodigious 
efflorescence of the sea, rarely perceived by hu- 
man eyes, which the old Spanish navigators 
called praderias del mar. A luxuriant moss, 
having all the tints of the olive, enlarged and 
concealed the protuberances of granite. From 
all the jutting points swung the thin fluted strips 
ofvarech, which sailors use as their barometers. 
The light breath which stirred in the cavern 
waved to and fro their glossy bands. 

Under these vegetations there showed them- 
selves from time to time some of the rarest 
bijoux of the casket of the ocean ; ivory shells, 
strombi, purple - fish, univalves, struthiolaires, 
turriculated cerites. The bell -shaped limpet 
shells, like tiny huts, were everywhere adhering 
to the rocks, distributed in settlements, in the 
alleys between which prowled oscabrious, those 
beetles of the sea. A few large pebbles found 
their way into the cavern ; shell-fish took refuge 
there. The Crustacea are the grandees of the 
sea, who, in their lacework and embroidery, 
avoid the rude contact of the pebbly crowd. 
The glittering heap of their shells, in certain 
spots under the wave, gave out singular irradia- 
tions, amidst which the eye caught glimpses of 
confused azure and gold, and mother-of-pearl, 
of every tint of the water. 

Upon the side of the cavern, a little above 
the water-line, a magnificent and singular plant, 
attaching itself, like a fringe, to the border of 
sea-weed, continued and completed it. This 
plant, thick, fibrous, inextricably intertwined, 
and almost black, exhibited to the eye large con- 
fused and dusky festoons, everywhere dotted 
with innumerable little flowers of the colour of 
lapis-lazuli. In the water they seemed to glow 
like small blue flames. Out of the water they 
were flowers ; beneath it they were sapphires. 
The water, rising and inundating the basement 
of the grotto clothed with these plants, seems to 
cover the rock with gems. 

At every swelling of the wave these flowers 
increased in splendour, and at every subsidence 


96 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


grew dull again. So is it with the destiny of 
man ; aspiration is life, the outbreathing of the 
spirit is death. 

One of the marvels of the cavern was the 
rock itself. This rock, forming here a wall, 
there an arch, and here again a pillar or pilas- 
ter, was in places rough and bare, and some- 
times close beside was wrought with the most 
delicate natural carving. Strange evidences 
of mind mingled with the massive solidity of 
the granite. It was the wondrous art-work of 
the ocean. Here a sort of panel, cut square, 
and covered with round embossments in vari- 
ous positions, simulated a vague bas-relief. Be- 
fore this sculpture, with its obscure designs, a 
man might have dreamed of Prometheus rough- 
ly sketching for Michael Angelo. It seemed as 
if that great genius with a few blows of his mal- 
let could have finished the indistinct labours of 
the giant. In other places the rock was dam- 
asked like a Saracen buckler, or engraved like 
a Florentine vase. There were portions which 
appeared like Corinthian brass, then like ara- 
besques, as on the door of a mosque ; then like 
Runic stones with obscure and mystic prints of 
claws. Plants with twisted creepers and ten- 
drils, crossing and recrossing upon the ground- 
work of golden lichens, covered it with filigree. 
The grotto resembled in some wise a Moorish 
palace. It was a union of barbarism and of 
goldsmith’s work, with the imposing and rugged 
architecture of the elements. 

The magnificent stains and moulderings of 
the sea covered, as with velvet, the angles of 
granite. The escarpments were festooned with 
large flowered bindweed, sustaining itself with 
graceful case, and ornamenting the walls as by 
intelligent design. Wall-pellitories showed their 
strange clusters in tasteful arrangement. The 
wondrous light which came from beneath the 
water, at once a submarine twilight and an Ely- 
sian radiance, softened down and blended all 
harsh lineaments. Every wave was a prism. 
The outlines of things under these rainbow- 
tinted undulations produced the chromatic ef- 
fects of optical glasses made too convex. Solar 
spectra shot through the waters. Fragments 
of rainbows seemed floating in that transparent 
dawn. Elsewhere — in other corners — there 
was discernible a kind of moonlight in the wa- 
ter. Every kind of splendour seemed to min- 
gle there, forming a singular sort of twilight. 
Nothing could be more perplexing or enigmat- 
ical than the sumptuous beauties of this cavern. 
Enchantment reigned over all. The fantastic 
vegetation, the rude masonry of the place seem- 
ed to harmonize. 

Was it daylight which entered by this case- 
ment beneath the sea ? Was it indeed water 
which trembled in this dusky pool? Were not 
these arched roofs and porches fashioned out 
of sunset clouds to imitate a cavern to men's 
eyes? What stone was that beneath the feet? 
Was not this solid shaft about to melt and pass 
into thin air? What was that cunning jew ci- 
lery of glittering shells, half seen beneath the 


wave ? How far away were life, and the green 
earth, and human faces? What strange en- 
chantment haunted that mystic twilight ? What 
blind emotion, mingling its sympathies with 
the uneasy restlessness of plants beneath the 
wave ? 

At the extremity of the cavern, which was 
oblong, rose a Cyclopean archivolte, singularlyi 
exact in form. It was a species of cave within 
a cave, of tabernacle within a sanctuary. Here, 
behind a sheet of bright verdure, interposed like 
the veil of a temple, arose a stone out of the 
waves, having square sides, and bearing some 
resemldance to an altar. The water surround- 
ed it in all parts. It seemed as if a goddess 
had just descended from it. One might have 
dreamed there that some celestial form beneath 
that crypt or upon that altar dwelt for ever 
pensive in naked beauty, but grew invisible at 
the approach of mortals. It was hard to con- 
ceive that majestic chamber without a vision 
within. The day-dream of the intruder might 
evoke again the marvellous apparition. A flood 
of chaste light falling upon white shoulders 
scarcely seen ; a forehead bathed with the light 
of dawn ; an Olympian visage oval-shaped ; a 
bust full of mysterious grace; arms modestly 
down-dropt ; tresses unloosened in the aurora ; 
a body delicately modelled of pure whiteness, 
half wrapped in a sacred cloud, with the glance 
of a virgin; a Venus rising from the sea, or 
Eve issuing from chaos; such was the dream 
which filled the mind. 

The beauty of the recess seemed made for 
this celestial presence. It was for the. sake of 
this deity, this fairy of the pearl caverns, this 
queen of the Zephyrs, this grace born of the 
waves, it was for her — as the mind, at least, 
imagined — that this subterranean dwelling had 
been thus religiously walled in, so that nothing 
might ever trouble the reverend shadows and 
the majestic silence round about that divine 
spirit. 

Gilliatt, who was a kind of seer amid the se- 
crets of Nature, stood there musing and sensible 
of confused emotions. 

Suddenly, at a few feet below him, in the de- 
lightful transparence of that water like liquid 
jewels, he became sensible of the approach of 
something of mystic shape. A species of long 
ragged band was moving amidst the oscillation 
of the waves. It did not float, but darted about 
of its own will. It had an object ; was advanc- 
ing somewhere rapidly. The object had some- 
thing of the form of a jester’s bawble with points, 
which hung flabby and undulating. It seemed 
covered with a dust incapable of being washed 
away by the water. It was more than horrible ; 
it was foul. The beholder felt that it was some- 
thing monstrous. It was a living thing; un- 
less, indeed, it were but an illusion. 'It seemed 
to be seeking the darker portion of the cavern, 
where at last it vanished. The heavy shadows 
grew darker as its sinister form glided into 
them and disappeared. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


97 


BOOK II. 

THE LABOUR. 


I. 

TIIE RESOURCES OF ONE WHO HAS NOTHING. 

The cavern did not easily part with its ex- 
plorers. The entry had been difficult ; going 
back was more difficult still. Gilliatt, how- 
ever, succeeded in extricating himself ; but he 
did not return there. He had found nothing 
of what he was in quest of, and he had not the 
time to indulge curiosity. 

He put the forge in operation at once. 
Tools were wanting ; he set to work and made 
them. 

For fuel he had the wreck ; for motive force, 
the water ; for his bellows, the wind ; for his 
anvil, a stone ; for art, his instinct ; for power, 
his will. 

Gilliatt entered with ardour upon his sombre 
labours. 

The weather seemed to smile upon his work. 
It continued to be dry and free from equinoc- 
tial gales. The month of March had come, 
but it was tranquil. The days grew longer. 
The blue of the sky, the gentleness of all the 
movements of the scene, the serenity of the 
noontide, seemed to exclude the idea of mis- 
chief. The waves danced merrily in the sun- 
light. A Judas kiss is the first step to treach- 
ery; of such caresses the ocean is prodigal. 
Her smile, like that of woman’s sometimes, 
cannot be trusted. 

There was little wind. The hydraulic bel- 
lows worked all the better for that reason. 
Much wind would have embarrassed rather 
than aided it. Gilliatt had a saw; he manu- 
factured for himself a file. With the saw he 
attacked the wood ; with the file, the metal. 
Then he availed himself of the two iron hands 
of the smith — the pincers and the pliers. The 
pincers gripe, the pliers handle; the one is like 
the closed hand, the other like the fingers. By 
degrees he made for himself a number of auxil- 
iaries, and constructed his armour. With a 
piece of hoop-wood he made a screen for his 
forge fire. 

One of his principal labours was the sorting 
and repair of pulleys. He mended both the 
blocks and the sheaves of tackle. He cut down 
the irregularities of all broken joists, and re- 
shaped the extremities. He had, as we have 
said, for the necessities of his carpentry, a quan- 
tity of pieces of wood, stored away, and arranged 
according to the forms, the dimensions, and the 
nature of their grain ; the oak on one side, the 
pine on the other ; the short pieces like riders 
separated from the straight pieces like binding 
strakes. This formed his reserve of supports 
and levers, of which he might stand in great 
need at any moment. 


Any one who intends to construct hoisting 
tackle ought to provide himself with beams and 
small cables. But that is not sufficient. He 
must have cordage. Gilliatt restored the cables, 
large and small. He frayed out the tattered 
sails, and succeeded in converting them into an 
excellent yarn, of which he made twine. With 
this he joined the cordage. The joins, how- 
ever, were liable to rot. It was necessary, 
therefore, to hasten to make use of these ca- 
bles. He had only been able to make white 
tow, for he was without tar. 

The ropes mended, he proceeded to repair 
the chains. 

Thanks to the lateral point of the stone an*, 
vil, which served the part of the bicorn conoid, 
he was able to forge rings, rude in shape, but 
strong. With these he fastened together the 
severed lengths of chains, and made long pieces. 

To work at a forge without assistance is 
something more than troublesome. He suc- 
ceeded nevertheless. It is true that he had 
only to forge and shape articles of compara- 
tively small size, which he was able to handle 
with the pliers in one hand, while he hammered 
with the other. 

He cut the iron bars of the captain’s bridge, 
on which he used to pass to and fro from pad- 
dle-box to paddle-box giving his orders, into 
lengths ; forged at one extremity of each piece 
a point, and at the other a flat head. By this 
means he manufactured large nails of about a 
foot in length. These nails, much used in 
pontoon making, are useful in fixing anything 
in rocks. 

What was his object in all these labours? 
We shall see. 

He was several times compelled to renew 
the blade of his hatchet and the teeth of his 
saw'. For renotching the saw he had manu- 
factured a special file. 

Occasionally he made use of the capstan of 
the Durande. The hook of the chain broke: 
he made another. 

By the aid of his pliers and pincers, and by 
using his chisel as a screw-driver, he set to 
work to remove the two paddle-wheels of the 
vessel ; an object which he accomplished. This 
was rendered practicable by reason of a pecu- 
liarity in their construction. The paddle-boxesj 
which covered them served him to stow theiri 
away. With the planks of these paddle-boxes 
he made two cases, in which he deposited the 
two paddles, piece by piece, each part being 
carefully numbered. 

His piece of chalk became precious for this 
purpose. 

He kept the two cases upon the strongest 
part of the wreck. 


G 


98 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


When these preliminaries were completed, 
Gilliatt found himself face to face with the 
great difficulty. The problem of the engine 
of the Durandc was now clearly before him. 

Taking the paddle-wheels to pieces had 
proved practicable. It was very different with 
the machinery. 

In the first place, he was almost entirely ig- 
norant of the details of the mechanism. Work- 
ing thus blindly he might do some irreparable 
damage. Then, even in attempting to dis- 
member it, if he had ventured on that course, 
far other tools would be necessary than such as 
he could fabricate with a cavern for a forge, a 
wind-draught for bellows, and a stone for an 
anvil. In attempting, therefore, to take to 
pieces the machinery, there was the risk of de- 
stroying if. 

The attempt seemed at first sight wholly im- 
practicable. 

The apparent impossibility of the project rose 
before him like a stone wall, blocking further 
progress. 

What was to be done ? 


II. 

PREPARATIONS. 

Gilliatt had a notion. 

Since the time of the carpenter-mason of Sal- 
bris, who, in the sixteenth century, in the dark 
ages of science — long before Amontons had dis- 
covered the first law of electricity, or Lahire the 
second, or Coulomb the third — without other 
helper than a child, his son, with ill-fashioned 
tools, in the chamber of the great clock of La 
Charite-sur-Loire, resolved at one stroke five or 
six problems in statics and dynamics inextrica- 
bly intervolved like the wheels in a block of 
carts and wagons — since the time of the grand 
and marvellous achievement of the poor work- 
man, who found means, without breaking a sin- 
gle piece of wdre, without throwing one of the 
teeth of the wheels out of gear, to lower in one 
piece, by a marvellous simplification, from the 
second stoiy of the clock tower to the first, that 
massive monitor of the hours, made all of iron 
and brass, “large as the room in which the 
man watches at night from the tow'er,” with its 
motion, its cylinders, its barrels, its drum, its 
hooks, and its weights, the barrel of its spring 
steel-yard, its horizontal pendulum, the hold- 
fasts of its escapement, its reels of large and 
small chains, its stone weights, one of which 
weighed five hundred pounds, its bells, its peals, 
its jacks that strike the hours — since the days, 
I say, of the man who accomplished this mira- 
cle, and of whom posterity knows not even the 
name* — nothing that could be compared with 
the project which Gilliatt was meditating had 
ever been attempted. 

The ponderousness, the delicacy, the involve- 
ment of the difficulties were not less in the ma- 
chinery of the Durande than in the clock of La 
Charitc-sur-Loire. 


The untaught mechanic had his helpmate — 
his son ; Gilliatt was alone. 

A crowd gathered together from Meung-sur- 
Loire, from Nevers, and even from Orleans, 
able at time of need to assist the mason of Sal- 
bris, and to encourage him with their friendly 
voices. Gilliatt had around him no voices but 
those of the wind ; no crowd but the assem- 
blage of waves. 

There is nothing more remarkable than the 
timidity of ignorance, unless it be its temerity. 
When ignorance becomes daring, she has some- 
times a sort of compass within herself — the in- 
tuition of the truth, clearer oftentimes in a sim- 
ple mind than in a learned brain. 

Ignorance invites to an attempt. It is a 
state of wonderment, which, with its concomi- 
tant curiosity, forms a power. Knowledge 
often enough disconcerts and makes overcau- 
tious. Gama, had he known what lay before 
him, w'ould have recoiled before the Cape of 
Storms. If Columbus had been a great geog- 
rapher, he might have failed to discover Amer- 
ica. 

The second successful climber of Mont Blanc 
was the savant, Saussure; the first the goat- 
herd, Balmat. 

These instances, I admit, are exceptions, 
which detract nothing from science, which re- 
mains the rule. The ignorant man may dis- 
cover; it is the learned who invent. 

The sloop was still at anchor in the creek of 
“ The Man” rock, wdiere the sea left it in peace. 
Gilliatt, as will be remembered, had arranged 
everything for maintaining constant communi- 
cation with it. He visited the sloop and meas- 
ured her beam carefully in several parts, but 
particularly her midship frame. Then he re- 
turned to the Durande and measured the diam- 
eter of the floor of the engine-room. This diam- 
eter, of course, without the paddles, was two 
feet less than the broadest part of the deck of 
his bark. The machinery therefore might be 
put aboard the sloop. 

But how could it be got there? 


III. 

gilliatt’s masterpiece comes to the res- 
cue OF LETHIERRY. 

Any fisherman who had been mad enough to 
loiter in that season in the neighbourhood of 
Gilliatt’s labours about this time would have 
been repaid for his hardihood by a singular 
sight between the two Douvres. 

Before his eyes would have appeared four 
stout beams, at equal distances, stretching from 
one Douvre to the other, and apparently forced 
into the rock, which is the firmest of all holds. 
On the Little Douvre, their extremities were 
laid and buttressed upon the projections of rock. 
On the Great Douvre, they had been driven in 
by blows of a hammer, by the powerful hand 
» of some workman standing upright upon the 


09 


THE TOILERS 

beam itself. These supports were a little longer 
than the distance between the rocks. Hence 
the firmness of their hold ; and hence, also, 
their slanting position. They touched the 
Great Douvre at an acute, and the Little Dou- 
vre at an obtuse angle. Their inclination was 
only slight ; but it was unequal, which was a 
defect. But for this defect, they might have 
been supposed to be prepared to receive the 
planking of a deck. To these four beams were 
attached four sets of hoisting apparatus, each 
having its pendent and its tackle-fall, with the 
bold peculiarity of having the tackle-blocks with 
two sheaves at one extremity of the beam, and 
the simple pulleys at the opposite end. This 
distance, which was too great not to be perilous, 
was necessitated by the operations to be effect- 
ed. The blocks were firm and the pulleys 
strong. To this tackle-gear cables were attach- 
ed, which from a distance looked like threads ; 
while beneath this apparatus of tackle and car- 
pentry, in the air, the massive hull of the Du- 
rande seemed suspended by threads. 

She was not yet suspended, however. Under 
the cross-beams, eight perpendicular holes had 
been made in the deck, four on the port, and 
four on the starboard side of the engine ; eight 
other holes had been made beneath them through 
the keel. The cables, descending vertically 
from the four tackle-blocks, through the deck, 
passed out at the keel, and under the machin- 
ery, re-entered the ship by the holes on the oth- 
er side, and passing again upward through the 
deck, returned, and were wound round the beams 
at a spot where a sort of jigger-tackle held them 
in a bunch bound fast to a single cable, capable 
of being directed by one arm. The single ca- 
ble passed over a hook, and through a dead-eye, 
which completed the apparatus, and kept it in 
check. This combination compelled the four 
taeklingsto work together, and, acting as a com- 
plete restraint upon the suspending powers, be- 
came a sort of dynamical rudder in the hand of 
the pilot of the operation, maintaining the move- 
ments in equilibrium. The ingenious adjust- 
ment of this system of tackling had some of the 
simplifying qualities of the Weston pulley of 
these times, with a mixture of the antique poly- 
spaston of Vitruvius. Gilliatt had discovered 
this, although he knew nothing of the dead Vi- 
truvius or of the still unborn Weston. The 
length of the cables varibd, according to the un- 
equal declivity of the cross-beams. The ropes 
were dangerous, for the untarred hemp was lia- 
ble to give way. Chains would have been bet- 
ter in this respect, but chains would not have 
passed well through the tackle-blocks. 

The apparatus was full of defects; but as the 
work of one man, it was surprising. For the 
rest, the reader will understand that many de- 
tails are omitted which would render the con- 
struction intelligible to practical mechanics, but 
obscure to others. 

The top of the funnel passed between the 
two beams in the middle. 

Gilliatt, without suspecting it, had recon- 


OF THE SEA. 

structed, three centuries later, the mechanism 
of the Salbris carpenter, a mechanism rude and 
incorrect, and hazardous for him who would 
dare to use it. 

Here let us remark that the rudest defects do 
not prevent a mechanism from working well or 
ill. It may limp, but it moves. The obelisk 
in the square of St. Peter’s at Rome is erected 
in a way which offends against all the principles 
of statics. The carriage of the Czar Peter was 
so constructed that it appeared about to over- 
turn at every step, but it travelled onward for 
all that. What deformities are there in the 
machinery of Marly ! Everything that is hot- 
erodox in hydraulics. Yet it did not supply 
Louis XIV. the less with water. 

Come what might, Gilliatt had faith. Ho 
had even anticipated success so confidently as to 
fix in the bulwarks of the sloop, on the day when 
he measured its proportions, two pairs of corre- 
sponding iron rings on each side, exactly at the 
same distances as the four rings on board the 
Durande, to which were attached the four chains 
of the funnel. 

He had in his mind a very complete and set- 
tled plan. All the chances being against him, 
he had evidently determined that all the precau- 
tions at least should be on his side. 

He did some things which seemed useless ; a 
sign of attentive premeditation. 

His manner of proceeding would, as we have 
said, have puzzled an observer, even though fa- 
miliar with mechanical operations. 

A witness of his labour who had seen him, 
for example, with enormous efforts, and at the 
risk of breaking his neck, driving with blows of 
his hammer eight or ten great nails which ho 
had forged into the base of the two Douvres at 
the entrance of the defile between them, would 
have had some difficulty in understanding the 
objects of these nails, and would probably have 
Avondered what could be the use of all that 
trouble. 

If he had then seen Gilliatt measuring the 
portion of the fore bulwark which had remain- 
ed, as we ha\ r e described it, hanging on by the 
wreck, then attaching a strong cable to the up- 
per edge of that portion, cutting away Avith 
strokes of his hatchet the dislocated fastenings 
Avhich held it, then dragging it out of the defile, 
pushing the lower part by the aid of the reced- 
ing tide, while he dragged the upper part ; final- 
ly, by great labour, fastening Avith the cable this 
heavy mass of planks and piles, wider than the 
entrance of the defile itself, with the nails driv- 
en into the base of the Little Douvre, the ob- 
serA-er would perhaps have found it still more 
difficult to comprehend, and might have Avon- 
dered Avhy Gilliatt, if he AA'anted, for the purpose 
of his operations, to disencumber the space be- 
tween the tAVO rocks of this mass, hail not al- 
loAved it to fall into the sea, where the tide 
AA r ould have carried it aAvay. 

Gilliatt had probably his reasons. 

In fixing the nails in the basement of the 
rocks, he had taken advantage of all the crackf 




100 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


in the granite, enlarged them where needful, 
and driven in first of all wedges of wood, in 
which he fixed the nails. He made a rough 
commencement of similar preparations in the 
two rocks which rose at the other extremity of 
the narrow passage on the eastern side. He 
furnished with plugs of wood all the crevices, as 
if he desired to keep these also ready to hold 
nails or clamps ; but this appeared to be a sim- 
ple precaution, for he did not use them fur- 
ther. He was compelled to economize, and 
only to use his materials as he had need, and 
at the moment when the necessity for them 
came. This was another addition to his nu- 
merous difficulties. 

As fast as one labour was accomplished an- 
other became necessary. Gilliatt passed with- 
out hesitation from task to task, and resolutely 
accomplished his giant strides. 


IV. 

sun RE. 

The aspect of the man who accomplished all 
these labors became terrible. 

Gilliatt in his multifarious tasks expended all 
his strength at once, and regained it with diffi- 
culty. 

Privations on the one hand, lassitude on the 
other, had much reduced him. His hair and 
beard had grown long. He had but one shirt 
w'hich was not in rags. He went about naked- 
footed, the wind having carried away one of his 
shoes and the sea the other. Fractures of the 
rude and dangerous stone anvil which he used 
had left small wounds upon his hands and arms, 
the marks of labour. These wounds, or rather 
scratches, were superficial, but the keen air and 
the salt sea irritated them continually. 

He was generally hungry, thirsty, and cold. 

His store of fresh water was gone ; his rye- 
meal was used or eaten. He had nothing left 
but a little biscuit. 

This he broke with his teeth, having no wa- 
ter in which to steep it. 

By little and little, and day by day, his pow- 
ers decreased. 

The terrible rocks were consuming his exist- 
ence. 

How to get food was a problem ; how to get 
drink was a problem ; how to get rest was a 
problem. 

He ate when he was fortunate enough to find 
a cray-fish or a crab ; he drank when he chanced 
to see a sea-bird descend upon a point of rock ; 
for on climbing up to the spot he generally 
found there a hollow with a little fresh water. 
He drank from it after the bird, sometimes with 
the bird, for the gulls and sea-mews had become 
accustomed to him, and no longer flew away at 
his approach. Even in his greatest need of 
food he did not attempt to molest them. He 
had, as will be remembered, a superstition about 
birds. The birds on their part, now that his 


hair was rough and wild and his beard long, 
had no fear of him. The change in his face 
gave them confidence ; he had lost resemblance 
to men, and taken the form of the wild beast. 

The birds and Gilliatt, in fact, had become 
good friends. Companions in poverty, they 
helped each other. As long as he had had any 
meal, he had crumbled for them some little bits 
of the cakes he made. In his deeper distress, 
they showed him in their turn the places where 
he might find the little pools of water. 

He ate the shell-fish raw. Shell-fish help in 
a certain degree to quench the thirst. The 
crabs he cooked. Having no kettle, he roasted 
them between two stones made red-hot in his 
fire, after the manner of the savages of the Fa- 
roe Islands. 

Meanwhile signs of the equinoctial season 
had begun to appear. There came rain — an 
angry rain. No showers or steady torrents, but 
fine, sharp, icy, penetrating points, which pierced 
to his skin through his clothing, and to his bones 
through his skin. It was a rain which yielded 
little water for drinking, but which drenched 
him none the less. 

Chary of assistance, prodigal of misery — such 
was the character of these rains. During one 
week Gilliatt suffered from them all day and all 
night. 

At night, in his rocky recess, nothing but the 
overpowering fatigue of his daily work enabled 
him to get sleep. The great sea-gnats stung 
him, and he awakened covered with blisters. 

He had a kind of low fever, rvhich sustained 
him ; this fever is a succour which destroys. 
By instinct he cherved the mosses, or sucked the 
leaves of wild cochlearia, scanty tufts of which 
grew in the dry crevices of the rocks. Of his 
suffering, however, he took little heed. He had 
no time to spare from his wqrk to the consider- 
ation of his own privations. The rescue of the 
machinery of the Durande was progressing well. 
That sufficed for him. 

Every now and then, for the necessities of his 
work, he jumped into the water, swam to some 
point, and gained a footing again. He simply 
plunged into the sea and left it, as a man passes 
from one room in his dwelling to another. 

His clothing was never dry. It was satura- 
ted with rain-water, which bad no time to drv, 
and with sea-wa^er, which never dries. He 
lived perpetually wet. 

Living in wet clothing is a habit which may 
be acquired. The poor groups of Irish people, 
old men, mothers, girls almost naked, and in- 
fants, who pass the winter in the open air, un- 
der the snow and rain, huddled together, some- 
times at the corners of houses in the streets of 
London, live and die in this condition. 

To be soaked with wet, and yet to be thirsty 
— Gilliatt grew familiar with this strange tor- 
ture. There were times when he was glad to 
suck the sleeve of his loose coat. 

The fire which he made scarcely warmed 
him. A fire in open air yields little comfort. 
One burns on one side and freezes on the other. 


* 

. ?o « 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


101 


Gilliatt often, sometimes, shivered even while 
sweating over his forge. 

Everywhere about him rose resistance amidst 
a sort of terrible silence. He felt himself the 
enemy of an unseen combination. There is a 
dismal non possumus in nature. The inertia of 
matter is like a sullen threat. A mysterious 
persecution environed him. He suffered from 
heats and shiverings. The fire ate into his 
flesh ; the water froze him ; feverish thirst tor- 
mented him; the wind tore his clothing; hun- 
ger undermined the organs of the body. The 
oppression of all these things was constantly 
exhausting him. Obstacles silent, immense, 
seemed to converge from all points, with the 
blind irresponsibility of fate, yet full of a savage 
unanimity. He felt them pressing inexorably 
upon him. No means were there of escaping 
from them. His sufferings produced the im- 
pression of some living persecutor. He had a 
constant sense of something working against 
him, of a hostile form ever present, ever labour- 
ing to circumvent and to subdue him. He 
could have fled from the struggle ; but since 
he remained, he had no choice but to war with 
this impenetrable hostility. He asked himself 
what this was. It took hold of him, grasped 
him tightly, overpowered him, deprived him of 
breath. The invisible persecutor was destroy- 
ing him by slow degrees. Every day the op- 
pression became greater, as if a mysterious screw 
had received another turn. 

His situation in this dreadful spot resembled 
a duel, in which a suspicion of some treachery 
haunts the mind of one of the combatants. 

Now it seemed a coalition of obscure forces 
surrounded him. He felt that there was some- 
where a determination to be rid of his presence. 
It is thus that the glacier chases the loitering 
ice-block. 

Almost without seeming to touch him, this 
latent condition had reduced him to rags ; had 
left him bleeding, distressed, and as it were, hors 
de combat , even before the battle. He laboured, 
indeed, not the less — without pause or rest ; but 
as the work advanced, the workman himself lost 
ground. It might have been fancied that Na- 
ture, dreading his bold spirit, adopted the plan 
of slowly undermining his bodily power. Gil- 
liatt kept his ground, and left the rest to the 
future. The sea had begun by consuming him ; 
what would come next ? 

The double Douvres — that dragon made of 
granite, and lying in ambush in mid-ocean — had 
sheltered him. It had allowed him to enter, 
and to do his will ; but its hospitality resembled 
the welcome of devouring jaws. 

The desert, the boundless surface, the unfath- 
omable space around him and above, so full of 
negatives to man’s will ; the mute, inexorable 
determination of phenomena following their ap- 
pointed course ; the grand general law of things, 
implacable and passive; the ebbs and flow's; 
the rocks themselves, dark Pleiades whose points 
were each a star amid vortices, a centre of an 
irradiation of currents ; the strange, indefinable 


conspiracy to stifle with indifference the temer- 
ity of a living being ; the wintry winds, the 
clouds, and the beleaguering waves enveloped 
j him, closed round him slowly, and in a measure 
shut him in, and separated him from compan- 
ionship, like a dungeon built up by degrees 
round a living man. All against him ; nothing 
for him ; he felt himself isolated, abandoned, 
enfeebled, sapped, forgotten. His storehouse 
empty, his tools broken or defective; he was 
tormented with hunger and thirst by day, with 
cold by night. His sufferings had left him with 
wounds and tatters, rags covering sores, torn 
hands, bleeding feet, wasted limbs, pallid cheeks, 
and eyes bright with a strange light ; but this 
w r as the steady flame of his determination. 

All his efforts seemed to tend to the impossi- 
ble. His success was trifling and slow. He 
w r as compelled to expend much labour for very 
little results. This it was that gave to his strug- 
gle its noble and pathetic character. 

That it should have required so many prepa- 
rations, so much toil, so many cautious experi- 
ments, such nights of hardship, and such days 
of danger, merely to set up four beams over a 
shipwrecked vessel, to divide and isolate the 
portion that could be saved, and to adjust to 
that wreck within a wreck four tackle-blocks 
with their cables, was only the result of his soli- 
tary labour. 

That solitary position Gilliatt had more than 
accepted ; he had deliberately chosen it. Dread- 
ing a competitor, because a competitor might 
have proved a rival, he had sought for no assist- 
ance. The overwhelming enterprise, the risk, 
the danger, the toil multiplied by itself, the pos- 
sible destruction of the salvor in his work, fam- 
ine, fever, nakedness, distress — he had chosen 
all these for himself! Such was his selfishness. 
He was like a man placed in some terrible cham- 
ber which is being slowly exhausted of air. His 
vitality w r as leaving him by little and little. He 
scarcely perceived it. 

Exhaustion of the bodily strength does not 
necessarily exhaust the will. Faith is only a 
secondary power; the will is the first. The 
mountains, which faith is proverbially said to 
move, are nothing beside that which the will 
can accomplish. All that Gilliatt lost in vig- 
our he gained in tenacity. The destruction of 
the physical man ander the oppressive influence 
of that wild surrounding sea, and rock, and sky, 
seemed only to reinvigorate his moral nature. 

Gilliatt felt no fatigue ; or, rather, would not 
yield to any. The refusal of the mind to rec- 
ognise the failings of the body is in itself an im- 
mense power. 

He saw nothing except the steps which were 
making in the progress of his labours. 

His object — now seeming so near attainment 
— wrapped him in perpetual illusions. 

He endured all this suffering without any 
other thought than is comprised in the word 
“Forward.” His work flew to his head; the 
strength of the will is intoxicating. Its intoxi- 
cation is called heroism. 


102 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


He had become a Lind of Job, having the 
ocean for the scene of Lis sufferings. But he 
was a Job wrestling with difficulty ; a Job com- 
bating and making head against afflictions ; a 
Job conquering ; a combination of Job and Pro- 
metheus, if such names are not too great to be 
applied to a poor sailor and fisher of crabs and 
cray-fish. 


V. 

SUB UMBRA. 

Sometimes in the night-time Gilliatt woke 
and peered into the darkness. 

He felt a strange emotion. 

His eyes were opened upon the black night; 
the situation was dismal — full of disquietude. 

There is such a thing as the pressure of dark- 
ness. 

A strange roof of shadow ; a deep obscurity 
which no diver can explore; a light mingled 
with that obscurity, of a strange, subdued, and 
sombre kind ; floating atoms of rays, like a dust 
of seeds or of ashes ; millions of lamps, but no 
illumining ; a vast sprinkling of fire, of which 
no man knows the secret ; a diffusion of shining 
points, like a drift of sparks arrested in their 
course ; the disorder of the whirlwind, with the 
fixedness of death ; a mysterious and abyssmal 
depth ; an enigma, at once showing and conceal- 
ing its face ; the infinite in its mask of darkness 
— these are the synonyms of night. Its weight 
lies heavily on the soul of man. 

This union of all mysteries — the mystery of 
the Cosmos and the mystery of Fate — oppresses 
human reason. 

The pressure of darkness acts in inverse pro- 
portion upon different kinds of natures. In the 
presence of night man feels his own incomplete- 
ness. He perceives the dark void and is sensi- 
ble of infirmity. It is like the vacancy of blind- 
ness. Face to face with night, man bends, 
kneels, prostrates himself, crouches on the earth, 
crawls towards a cave, or seeks for wings. Al- 
most always he shrinks from that vague presence 
of the Infinite Unknown. He asks himself 
what it is; he trembles and bows the head. 
Sometimes he desires to go to it. 

To go whither? 

He can only answer “Yonder.” 

But what is that? and what is there? 

This curiosity is evidently forbidden to the 
spirit of man, for all around him the roads 
which bridge that gulf are broken up or gone. 
No arch exists for him to span the Infinite. 
But there is attraction in forbidden knowledge, 
as in the edge of the abyss. Where the foot- 
step cannot tread, the eye may reach ; where 
the eye can penetrate no further, the mind may 
soar. There is no man, however feeble or in- 
sufficient his resources, who does not essay. 
According to his nature, he questions or recoils 
before that mystery. With some it has the ef- 
fect of repressing; with others it enlarges the 
soul. The spectacle is sombre, indefinite. 


Is the night calm and cloudless ? It is then 
a depth of shadow. Is it stormy ? It is then 
a sea of cloud. Its limitless deeps reveal them- 
selves to us, and yet baffle our gaze; close 
themselves against research, but open to con- 
jecture. Its innumerable dots of light only 
make deeper the obscurity beyond. Jewels, 
scintillations, stars ; existences revealed in the 
unknown universes; dread defiances to man's 
approach ; landmarks of the infinite creation ; 
boundaries there, where there are no bounds ; 
sea-marks impossible, and yet real, numbering 
the fathoms of those infinite deeps. One mi- 
croscopic glittering point ; then another; then 
another ; imperceptible, yet enormous. Yonder 
light is a focus ; that focus is a star ; that star 
is a sun ; that sun is a universe ; that universe 
is nothing ; for all numbers are as zero in the 
presence of the Infinite. 

These worlds, which yet are nothing, exist. 
Through this fact we feel the difference which 
separates the being nothing from the not to be. 

All these vague imaginings, increased and 
intensified by solitude, weighed upon Gilliatt. 

He understood them little, but he felt them. 
His was a powerful intellect clouded ; a great 
spirit w r ild and untaught. 


VI. 

GILLIATT PLACES THE SLOOP IN READINESS. 

This rescue of the machinery of the wreck 
as meditated by Gilliatt was, as we have al- 
ready said, like the escape of a criminal from 
a prison — necessitating all the patience and in- 
dustry recorded of such achievements; industry 
carried to the point of a miracle, patience only 
to be compared with long agony. A certain 
prisoner named Thomas, at the Mont Saint 
Michel, found means of secreting the greater 
part of a wall in his palliasse. Another at 
Tulle, in 1820, cut away a quantity of lead from 
the terrace where the prisoners walked for ex- 
ercise. With what kind of knife? No one 
would guess. And melted this lead with what 
fire? None have ever discovered; but it is 
known that he cast it in a mould made of the 
crumb of bread. With this lead and this mould 
he made a key, and with this key succeeded in 
opening a lock of which he had never seen any- 
thing but the keyhole. Some of this marvel- 
lous ingenuity Gilliatt possessed. He had once 
climbed and descended from the cliff at Bois- 
rose. He was the Baron Trenck of the wreck, 
and the Latude of her machinery. 

The sea, like a jailer, kept watch over him. 

For the rest, mischievous and inclement as 
the rain had been, he had contrived to derive 
some benefit from it. He had in part replen- 
ished his stock of fresh water ; but his thirst 
was inextinguishable, and he emptied his can 
as fast as he filled it. 

One day — it was on the last day of April or 
the first of May — all was at length ready for his 
purpose. 


103 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


The engine-room was as it were enclosed be- 
tween the eight cables hanging from the tackle- 
blocks, four on one side, four on the other. 
The sixteen holes upon the deck and under the 
keel, through which the cables passed, had been 
hooped round by sawing. The planking had 
been sawed, the timber cut with the hatchet, 
the ironwork with a file, the sheathing with the 
chisel. The part of the keel immediately un- 
der the machinery was cut squarevvise, and 
ready to descend with it while still supporting 
it. All this frightful swinging mass was held 
only by one chain, which was itself only kept 
in position by a filed notch. At this stage, in 
such a labour and so near its completion, haste 
is prudence. 

The water was low ; the moment favourable. 

Gilliatt had succeeded in removing the axle 
of the paddles, the extremities of which might 
have proved an obstacle and checked the de- 
scent. He had contrived to make this heavy 
portion fast in a vertical position within the 
engine-room itself. 

It was time to bring his work to an end. 
The workman, as we have said, was not wea- 
ry, for his will w r as strong, but his tools were. 
The forge was by degrees becoming impracti- 
cable. The blower had begun to w*ork badly. 
The little hydraulic fall being of sea-water, 
saline deposits had encrusted the joints of the 
apparatus, and prevented its free action. 

Gilliatt visited the creek of “ The Man’ rock, 
examined the sloop, and assured himself that 
all was in good condition, particularly the four 
rings fixed to starboard and to larboard ; then 
he weighed anchor, and worked the heavy, 
barge-shaped craft with the oars till he brought 
it alongside the two Douvres. The defile be- 
tween the rocks was wide enough to admit it. 
There was also depth enough. On the day of 
his arrival he had satisfied himself that it was 
possible to push the sloop under the Durande. 

The feat, however, was difficult; it required 
the minute precision of a watchmaker. The 
operation was all the more delicate, from the 
fact that, for his objects, he w r as compelled to 
force it in by the stern, rudder first. It w r as 
necessary that the mast and the rigging of the 
sloop should project beyond the wreck in the 
direction of the sea. 

These embarrassments rendered all Gilliatt’s 
operations awkward. It was not like entering 
the creek of “The Man,” where it was a mere 
affair of the tiller. It w r as necessary here to 
push, drag, row, and take soundings all togeth- 
er. Gilliatt consumed but a quarter of an hour 
in these manoeuvres, but he was successful. 

In fifteen or twenty minutes the sloop was 
adjusted under the wreck. It was almost wedged 
in^ there. By means of his two anchors he moor- 
ed the boat by head and stern. The strongest 
of the two was placed so as to be efficient against 
the strongest wind that blows, which was that 
from the south-west. Then, by the aid of a 
lever and the capstan, he lowered into the sloop 
tin two cases containing the pieces of the pad- 


dle-wheels, the slings of which were all ready. 
The two cases served as ballast. 

Relieved of these encumbrances, he fastened 
to the hook of the chain of the capstan the sling 
of the regulating tackle-gear, intending to check 
the pulleys. 

Owing to the peculiar objects of this labour, 
the defects of the old sloop became useful qual- 
ities. It had no deck ; her burden, therefore, 
would have greater depth, and could rest upon 
the hold. Her mast was very forward — too far 
forward, indeed, for general purposes ; her con- 
tents, therefore, would have more room ; and 
the mast standing thus beyond the mass of the 
wreck, there would be nothing to hinder its dis- 
embarkation. It was a mere shell or case for 
receiving it; but nothing is more stable than 
this on the sea. 

While engaged in these operations, Gilliatt 
suddenly perceived that the sea was rising. 
He looked around to see from what quarter the 
wind was coming. 

+. 

VII. 

SUDDEN DANGER. 

The breeze was scarcely perceptible, but 
what there was came from the west — a disa- 
greeable habit of the winds during the equi- 
noxes. 

The rising sea varies much in its effects upon 
the Douvres rocks, depending upon the quarter 
of the wind. 

According to the gale which drives them be- 
fore it, the waves enter the rocky corridor ei- 
ther from the east or from the west. Entering 
from the east, the sea is comparatively gentle ; 
coming from the west, it is always furious. 
The reason of this is, that the wind from the 
east, blowing from the land, has not had time 
to gather force ; while the westerly winds, com- 
ing from the Atlantic, blow unchecked from a 
vast ocean. Even a very slight breeze, if it 
comes from the west, is serious. It rolls the 
huge billows from the illimitable space, and 
dashes the waves against the narrow defile in 
greater bulk than can find entrance there. 

A sea which rolls into a gulf is always terri- 
ble. It is the same with a crowd of people ; a 
multitude is a sort of fluid body. When the 
quantity which can enter is less than the quan- 
tity endeavouring to force a way, there is a fatal 
crush among the crowd, a fierce convulsion on 
the water. As long as the west wind blows, 
however slight the breeze, the Douvres are 
twice a day subjected to that rude assault. The 
sea rises, the tide breasts up, the narrow gullet 
gives little entrance ; the waves, driven against 
it violently, rebound and roar, and a tremen- 
dous surf beats the two sides of the gorge. 
Thus the Douvres, during the slightest wind 
from the west, present the singular spectacle of 
a sea comparatively calm without, while within 
the rocks a storm is raging. This tumult of 
waters, altogether confined and circumscribed, 


104 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


has nothing of the character of a tempest. It 
is a mere local outbreak among the waves, but 
a terrible one. As regards the winds from the 
north and south, they strike the rocks crosswise, 
and cause little surf in the passage. The en- 
trance by the east, a fact which must be borne 
in mind, was close to “The Man” rock. The 
redoubtable opening to the west was at the op- 
posite extremity, exactly between the two Dou- 
'vres. 

It was at this western entrance that Gilliatt 
found himself with the wrecked Durande, and 
the sloop made fast beneath it. 

A catastrophe seemed inevitable. There 
was not much wind, but it was sufficient for 
the impending mischief. 

Before many hours, the swell which was ris- 
ing would be rushing with full force into the 
gorge of the Douvres. The first waves were 
already breaking. This swell and eddy of the 
entire Atlantic would have behind it the im- 
mense sea. There would be no squall, no vio- 
lence ; but a simple overwhelming wave, which, 
commencing on the coasts of America, rolls to-, 
wards the shores of Europe with an impetus 
gathered over two thousand leagues. This 
wave, a gigantic ocean barrier, meeting the 
gap of the rocks, must be caught between the 
two Douvres, standing like watch-towers at the 
entrance, or like pillars of the defile. Thus 
swelled by the tide, augmented by resistance, 
driven back by the shoals, and urged on by the 
wind, it would strike the rock with violence ; 
and with all the contortions from the obstacles 
it had encountered, and all the frenzy of a sea 
confined in limits, would rush between the rocky 
walls, where it would reach the sloop and the 
Durande, and, in all probability, destroy them. 

A shield against this danger was wanting. 
Gilliatt had one. 

The problem was to prevent the sea reach- 
ing it at one bound ; to obstruct it from strik- 
ing, while allowing it to rise ; to bar the pas- 
sage without refusing it admission ; to prevent 
the compression of the water in the gorge, which 
was the whole danger ; to turn an eruption into 
a simple flood ; to extract, as it were, from the 
waves all their violence, and constrain the fu- 
ries to be gentle ; it was, in fact, to substitute 
an obstacle which will appease for an obstacle 
which irritates. 

Gilliatt, with all that dexterity which he pos- 
sessed, and which is so much more efficient 
than mere force, sprang upon the rocks like a 
chamois among the mountains or a monkey in 
the forest, using for his tottering and dizzy 
strides the smallest projecting stone; leaping 
into the water, and issuing from it again ; swim- 
ming among the shoals and clambering the 
rocks, with a rope between his teeth and a mal- 
let in his hand. Thus he detached the cable 
which kept suspended and also fast to the base- 
ment of the Little Douvre the end of the for- 
ward bulwark of the Durande ; fashioned yut 
of some ends of hawsers a sort of hinges, hold- j 
ing this bulwark to the huge nails fixed in the 


granite ; swung this apparatus of planks upon 
them, like the gates of a great dock, and turned 
their sides, as he would turn a rudder, outward 
to the waves, which pushed the extremities upon 
the Great Douvre, while the rope hinges detain- 
ed the other extremities upon the Little Douvre; 
next he contrived, by means of the huge nails 
fixed beforehand for the purpose, to fix the same 
kind of fastenings upon the Great Douvre as on 
the little one; made completely fast the vast 
mass of wood-work against the two pillars of 
the gorge, slung a chain across this barrier, 
like a baldric upon a cuirass, and, in less than 
an hour, this barricade against the sea was com- 
plete, and the gullet of the rocks closed as by a 
folding door. 

This powerful apparatus, a heavy mass of 
beams and planks, which laid flat would have 
made a raft, and upright formed a wall, had by 
the aid of the water been handled by Gilliatt 
with the adroitness of a juggler. It might al- 
most have been said that the obstruction was 
complete before the rising sea had the time to 
perceive it. 

It w as one of those occasions on which Jean 
Bart would have employed the famous expres- 
sion which he applied to the sea every time he 
narrowly escaped shipwreck, “We have cheat- 
ed the Englishman ;” for it is well known that 
when that famous admiral meant to speak con- 
temptuously of the ocean he called it “the En 
glishman.” 

The entrance to the defile being thus pro- 
tected, Gilliatt thought of the sloop. He 
loosened sufficient cable for the two anchors » 
to allow her to rise with the tide, an operation 
similar to what the mariners of old called 
“ mouiller avec des cmbossurcs” In all this, 
Gilliatt was not taken the least by surprise; 
the necessity had been foreseen. A seaman 
would have perceived it by the two pulleys of 
the top ropes cut in the form of snatch -blocks, 
and fixed behind the sloop, through which 
passed two ropes, the ends of which were slung 
through the rings of the anchors. 

Meamvhile the tide was rising fast; the half 
flood had arrived, a moment when the shock 
of the waves, even in comparatively moderate 
weather, may become considerable. Exactly 
what Gilliatt expected came to pass. The 
waves rolled violently against the barrier, struck 
it, broke heavily, and passed beneath. Outsido 
was the heavy swell ; within, the waters ran 
quietly. He had devised a gort of marine 
Furcce caudince. The sea was conquered. 


VIII. 

MOVEMENT P.ATIIER THAN PROGRESS. 

The moment so long dreaded had come. 

The problem now was to place the machinery 
in the bark. 

Gilliatt remained thoughtful for some mo- 
ments, holding the elbow of his left arm in his 


105 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEa. 


right hand, and applying his left hand to his 
forehead. 

Then he climbed upon the wreck, one part of 
which, containing the engine, was to be parted 
from it, while the other remained. 

He severed the four slings which fixed the 
four chains from the funnel on the larboard and 
the starboard sides. The slings being only of 
cord, his knife served him well enough for this 
purpose. 

The four chains, set free, hung down along 
the sides of the funnel. 

From the wreck he climbed up to the appa- 
ratus which he had constructed, stamped with 
his feet upon the beams, inspected the tackle- 
blocks, looked to the pulleys, handled the cables, 
examined the eking-pieces, assured himself that 
the untarred hemp was not saturated through, 
found that nothing was wanting and nothing 
giving way ; then, springing from the height of 
the suspending props on to the deck, he took up 
his position near the capstan, in the part of the 
Durande which he intended to leave jammed in 
between the two Douvres. This was to be his 
post during his labours. 

Earnest, but troubled with no impulses but 
what were useful to his work, he took a final 
glance at the hoisting-tackle, then took a file 
and began to saw with it through the chain 
which held the whole suspended. 

The rasping of the file was audible amidst the 
roaring of the sea. 

The chain from the capstan, attached to the 
regulating gear, was within his reach — quite 
near his hand. 

Suddenly there was a crash. The link which 
he was filing snapped when only half cut through : 
the whole apparatus swung violently. He had 
only just time sufficient to seize the regulating 
gear. 

The severed chain beat against the rock ; the 
eight cables strained ; the huge mass, sawed 
and cut through, detached itself from the wreck ; 
the belly of the hull opened, and the iron floor- 
ing of the engine-room was visible below the 
keel. 

If he had not seized the regulating tackle at 
that instant, it would have fallen. But his pow- 
erful hand was there, and it descended steadily. 

When the brother of Jean Bart, Peter Bart, 
that powerful and sagacious toper, that poor 
Dunkirk fisherman, who used to talk familiarly 
with the Grand Admiral of France, went to the 
rescue of the galley “Langeron,” in distress in 
the Bay of Ambleteuse, endeavouring to save 
the heavy floating mass in the midst of the 
breakers of that furious bay, he rolled up the 
mainsail, tied it with sea-reeds, and trusted to 
the ties to break away of themselves, and give 
the sail to the wind at the right moment. Just 
so Gilliatt trusted to the breaking of the chain, 
and the same eccentric feat of daring was crown- 
ed with the same success. 

The tackle, taken in hand by Gilliatt, held 
out and. worked well. Its function, as will be 
remembered, was to moderate the powers of 


the apparatus, thus reduced from many to one, 
and by bringing them into united action. The 
gear had some similarity to a bridle of a bow- 
line, except that instead of trimming a sail it 
served to balance a complicated mechanism. 

Erect, and with his hand upon the capstan, 
Gilliatt, so to speak, was enabled to feel the 
pulse of the apparatus. 

It was here that his inventive genius mani- 
fested itself. 

A remarkable coincidence of forces was the 
result. 

While the machinery of the Durande, de- 
tached in a mass, was lowering to the sloop, 
the sloop rose slowly to receive it. The wreck 
and the salvage vessel assisting each other in 
opposite ways, saved half the labour of the op- 
eration. 

The tide swelling quietly between the two 
Douvres raised the sloop and brought it nearer 
to the Durande. The sea was more than con- 
quered ; it was tamed and broken in. It be- 
came, in fact, part and parcel of the organization 
of power. 

The rising waters lifted the vessel without any 
sort of shock, gently, and almost with precau- 
tion, as one would handle porcelain. 

Gilliatt combined and proportioned the two 
labours, that of the water and that, of the appa- 
ratus ; and, standing .steadfast at the capstan, 
like some terrible statue obeyed by all the move- 
ments around it at the same moment, regulated 
the slowness of the descent by the slow rise of 
the sea. 

There was no jerk given by the waters ; no 
slip among the tackle. It was a strange collab- 
oration of all the natural forces subdued. On 
one side, gravitation lowering the huge bulk, on 
the other the sea raising the bark. The attrac- 
tion of heavenly bodies which causes the tide, 
and the attractive force of the earth, which men 
call weight, seemed to conspire together to aid 
his plans. There was no hesitation, no stop- 
page in their service ; under the dominance of 
mind these passive forces became active auxil- 
iaries. From minute to minute the work ad- 
vanced ; the interval between the wreck and the 
sloop diminished insensibly. The approach con- 
tinued in silence, and as in a sort of terror of the 
man who stood there. The elements received 
his orders and fulfilled them. 

Nearly at the moment the tide ceased to raise 
it, the cable ceased to slide. Suddenly, but with- 
out commotion, the pulleys stopped. The vast 
machine had taken its place in the bark, as if 
placed there by a powerful hand. It stood 
straight, upright, motionless, firm. The iron 
floor of the engine-room rested with its four cor- 
ners evenly upon the hold. 

The work was accomplished. 

Gilliatt contemplated it, lost in thought. 

He was not the spoiled child of success He 
bent under the weight of his great joy. He felt 
hisdimbs, as it were, sinking ; and, contempla- 
ting his triumph, he, who had never been shaken 
by danger, began to tremble. 


106 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


He gazed upon the sloop under the wreck, 
and at the machinery in the sloop. He seemed 
to feel it hard to believe it true. It might have 
been supposed that he had never looked forward 
to that which he had accomplished. A miracle 
had been wrought by his hands, and he contem- 
plated it in bewilderment. 

His reverie lasted but a short time. 

* Starting like one awakening from a deep 
sleep, he seized his saw, cut the eight cables, 
separated now from the sloop, thanks to the ris- 
ing of the tide, by only about ten feet ; sprang 
aboard, took a bunch of cord, made four slings, 
passed them through the rings prepared before- 
hand, and fixed on both sides aboard the sloop 
the four chains of the funnel which only an 
hour before had been still fastened to their 
places aboard the Durande. 

The funnel being secured, he disengaged the 
upper part of the machinery. A square portion 
of the planking of the Durande was adhering to 
it ; he struck off the nails and relieved the sloop 
of this encumbrance of planks and beams, which 
fell over on to the rocks — a great assistance in 
lightening it. 

For the rest, the sloop, as has been foreseen, 
behaved well under the burden of the machin- 
ery. It had sunk in the water, but only to a 
good water-line. Although massive, the engine 
of the Durande was less heavy than the pile 
of stones and the cannon which he had once 
brought back from Herm in the sloop. 

All then was ended ; he had only to depart. 


IX. 

A SLIP BETWEEN CUP AND LIP. 

All was not ended. 

To reopen the gorge thus closed by the por- 
tion of the Durande’s bulwarks, and at once to 
push out with the sloop beyond the rocks, noth- 
ing could appear more clear and simple. On 
the sea every minute is urgent. There was lit- 
tle wind; scarcely a wrinkle on the open sea. 
The afternoon was beautiful, and promised a 
fine night. The sea indeed was calm, but the 
ebb had begun. The moment was favourable 
for starting. There would be the ebb-tide for 
leaving the Douvres, and the flood would carry 
him into Guernsey. It would be possible to be 
at St. Sampson’s at daybreak. 

But an unexpected obstacle presented itself. 
There was a flaw in his arrangements which 
had baffled all his foresight. 

The machinery was freed, but the chimney 
was not. 

The tide, by raising the sloop to the wreck 
suspended in the air, had diminished the dan- 
gers of the descent, and abridged the labour. 
But this diminution of the interval had left the 
top of the funnel entangled in the kind of gap- 
ing frame formed by the open hull of the Du- 
rande. The funnel was held fast there as be- 
tween four walls 


The services rendered by the sea had been ac- 
companied by that unfortunate drawback. It 
seemed as if the waves, constrained to obey, had 
avenged themselves by a malicious trick. 

It is true that what the flood-tide had done, 
the ebb would undo. 

The funnel, which was rather more than three 
fathoms in height, was buried more than eight 
feet in the wreck. The water-level would fall 
about twelve feet. Thus the funnel, descending 
with the falling tide, would have four feet of 
room to spare, and would clear itself easily. 

But how much time would elapse before that 
release would be completed ? Six hours. 

In six hours it would be near midnight. 
What means would there be of attempting to 
start at such an hour ? What channel could he 
find among all those breakers, so full of dangers 
even by day? IIow was he to risk his vessel 
in the depth of black night in that inextricable 
labyrinth, that ambuscade of shoals? 

There was no help for it. He must wait for 
the morrow. These six hours lost entailed a 
loss of twelve hours at least. 

He could not even advance the labour by 
opening the mouth of the gorge. His break- 
water was necessary against the next tide. 

He was compelled to rest. Folding his arms 
was almost the only thing which he had not yet 
done since his arrival on the rocks. 

This forced inaction irritated, almost vexed 
him with himself, as if it had been his fault. 
He thought “ what would Deruchette say of me 
if she saw me thus doing nothing?” 

And yet this interval for regaining his strength 
was not unnecessary. 

The sloop was now at his command; he de- 
termined to pass the night in it. 

He mounted once more to fetch his sheep- 
skin upon the Great Douvre ; descended again, 
supped off a few limpets and cliataignes de mer, 
drank, being very thirsty, a few draughts of wa- 
ter from his can, which was nearly emptied, en- 
veloped himself in the skin, the wool of which 
felt comforting, lay down like a watch-dog be- 
side the engine, drew his red cap over his eyes, 
and slept. 

. His sleep was profound. It was such sleep as 
men enjoy who have completed a great labour. 


X. 

SEA-WARNINGS. 

In the middle of the night he awoke sudden- 
ly, and with a jerk like the recoil of a spring. 

He opened his eyes. 

The Douvres, rising high over his head, were 
lighted up as by the white glow of a burning 
ember. Over all the dark escarpment of the 
rock there was a light like the reflection of a 
fire. 

Where could this fire come from? 

It was from the water. 

The aspect of the sea was extraordinary. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


107 


The water seemed a-fire. As far as the eye 
could reach, among the reefs and beyond them, 
the sea ran with flame. The flame was not 
red ; it had nothing in common w ith the grand 
living fires of volcanic craters or of great fur- 
naces. There was no sparkling, no glare, no 
purple edges, no noise. Long trails of a bluish 
tint simulated upon the water the folds of a 
winding-sheet. A pale trembling glow was 
spread over the waves. It was the spectre of a 
great fire rather than the fire itself. It was in 
some degree like the glow of unearthly flames 
lighting the inside of a sepulchre — a burning 
darkness. 

The night itself, dim, vast, and wide-diffused, 
was the fuel of that cold flame. It was a 
strange illumination issuing out of blindness. 
The shadow's themselves formed part of that 
phantom-fire. 

The sailors of the Channel are familiar with 
those indescribable phosphorescences, full of 
warning to the navigator. They are nowhere 
more surprising than in the “Great V,” near 
Isigny. 

By this light surrounding objects lose their 
reality. A spectral glimmer renders them, as 
it were, transparent. Rocks become no more 
than outlines. Cables of anchors look like iron 
bars heated to a white heat. The nets of the 
fishermen beneath the water seem webs of fire. 
The half of the oar above the waves is dark as 
ebony, the rest in the sea like silver. The drops 
from the blades uplifted from the water fall in 
starry showers upon the sea. Every boat leaves 
a furrow behind it like a comet’s tail. The 
sailors, wet and luminous, seem like men in 
flames. If you plunge a hand into the water, 
you withdraw it clothed in flame. The flame 
is dead, and is not felt. Your arm becomes a 
firebrand. You sec the forms of things in the 
sea roll beneath the waves as in liquid fire. The 
foam twinkles. The fish are tongues of fire, or 
fragments of the forked lightning, moving in the 
depths. 

The reflection of this brightness had passed 
over the closed eyelids of Gilliatt in the sloop. 
It was this that had awakened him. 

His awakening was opportune. 

The ebb tide had run out, and the waters 
were beginning to rise again. The funnel, 
which had become disengaged during his sleep, 
was about to enter again into the yawning hol- 
low above it. 

It was rising slowly. 

A rise of another foot would have entangled 
it in the wreck again. A rise of one foot is 
equivalent to half an hour’s tide. If he intend- 
ed, therefore, to take advantage of that tempo- 
rary deliverance once more within his reach, he 
had just half an hour before him. 

He leaped to his feet. 

Urgent as the situation was, he stood for a 
few moments meditative, contemplating the 
phosphorescence of the waves. 

Gilliatt knew the sea in all its phases. Not- 
withstanding all her tricks, and often as he had 


suffered from her terrors, he had long been her 
companion. That mysterious entity which we 
call the ocean had nothing in its secret thoughts 
which Gilliatt could not divine. Observation, 

, meditation, and solitude had given him a quick 
perception of coming changes, of wind, or cloud, 
or wave. 

Gilliatt hastened to the top-ropes and paid 
out some cable ; then, being no longer held fast 
by the anchors, he seized the boat-hook of the 
sloop and pushed her towards the entrance to 
the gorge, some fathoms from the Durande and 
quite near to the breakwater. Here, as the 
Guernsey sailors say, it had du rang. In less 
than ten minutes the sloop was withdrawn from 
beneath the carcass of the wreck. There was 
no farther danger of the funnel being caught in 
a trap. The tide might rise now. 

And yet Gilliatt’s manner was not that of one 
about to take his departure. 

He stood considering the light upon the sea 
once more, but his thoughts were not of starting. 
He was thinking of how to fix the sloop again, 
and how to fix it more firmly than ever, though 
near to the exit from the defile. 

Up to this time he had only used the two an- 
chors of the sloop, and had not yet employed 
the little anchor of the Durande, which he had 
found, as will be remembered, among the break- 
ers. This anchor had been deposited by him, 
in readiness for any emergency, in a corner of 
the sloop, with a quantity of hawsers, and blocks 
of top-ropes, and his cable, all furnished before- 
hand with large knots, which prevented its drag- 
ging. He now let go this third anchor, taking 
care to fasten the cable to a rope, one end of 
which was slung through the anchor ring, while 
the other was attached to the windlass of the 
sloop. In this manner he made a kind of tri- 
angular, triple anchorage, much stronger than 
the moorings w r ith two anchors. All this indi- 
cated keen anxiety, and a redoubling of precau- 
tions. A sailor would have seen in this opera- 
tion something similar to an anchorage in bad 
weather, when there is fear of a current, which 
might carry the vessel under the wind. 

The phosphorescence which he had been ob- 
serving, and upon which his eye was now fixed 
once more, was threatening, but serviceable at 
the same time. But for it he would have been 
held fast locked in sleep, and deceived by the 
night. The strange appearance upon the sea 
had awakened him, and made things about him 
visible. 

The light which it shed among the rocks was 
indeed ominous ; but, disquieting as it appeared 
to be to Gilliatt, it had served to show him the 
dangers of his position, and had rendered pos- 
sible his operations in extricating the sloop. 
Henceforth, whenever he should be able to set 
sail, the vessel, with its freight of machinery, 
would be free. 

And yet the idea of departing was further than 
ever from his mind. The sloop being fixed in 
its new position, he went in quest of the strongest 
chain which he had in his store-cavern, and 


108 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


attaching it to the nails driven into the two 
Douvres, he fortified from within with this chain 
the rampart of planks and beams, already pro- 
tected from without by the cross chain. Far 
from opening the entrance to the defile, he made 
the barrier more complete. 

The phosphorescence lighted him still, but it 
was diminishing. The day, however, was be- 
ginning to break. 

Suddenly he paused to listen. 


XI. 

MURMURS IN THE AIR. 

A ferule, indistinct sound seemed to reach 
his ear from somewhere in the far distance. 

At certain hours the great deeps give forth a 
murmuring noise. 

He listened a second time. The distant noise 
recommenced. Gilliatt shook his head like one 
who recognises at last something familiar to 
him. 

A few minutes later he was at the other ex- 
tremity of the alley between the rocks, at the 
entrance facing the east, which had remained 
open until then, and by heavy blows of his ham- 
mer was driving large nails into the sides of the 
gullet near “The Man” rock, as he had done at 
the gullet of the Douvres. 

The crevices of these rocks were prepared and 
well furnished with timber, almost all of which 
was heart of oak. The rock on this side being 
much broken up, there were abundant cracks, 
and he was able to fix even more nails there 
than in the base of the two Douvres. 

Suddenly, and as if some great breath had 
passed over it, the luminous appearance on the 
waters vanished. The twilight, becoming paler 
every moment, assumed its functions. 

The nails being driven, Gilliatt dragged 
beams and cords, and then chains to the spot; 
and without taking his eyes off his work, or 
permitting his mind to be diverted for a mo- 
ment, he began to construct across the gorge of 
“The Man,” with beams fixed horizontally and 
made fast by cables, one of those open barriers 
which science has now adopted under the name 
of breakwaters. 

Those who have witnessed, for example, at 
La Rocquaine in Guernsey, or at Bourg-d’Eau 
in France, the effect produced by a few posts 
fixed in the rock, will understand the power of 
these simple preparations. This sort of break- 
water is a combination of what is called in 
France ejn with what is called in England “a 
dam.” The breakwater is the chevaux-de-frise 
of fortifications against tempests. Man can only 
struggle against the sea by taking advantage of 
this principle of dividing its forces. 

Meanwhile the sun had risen, and was shin- 
ing brightly. The sky was clear, the sea calm. 

Gilliatt pressed on his work. He, too, was 
calm ; but there was anxiety in his haste. He 
passed with long strides from rock to rock, and 


returned dragging wildly sometimes a rider, 
sometimes a binding strake. The utility of all 
this preparation of timbers now became mani- 
fest. It was evident that he was about to con- 
front a danger which he had foreseen. 

A strong iron bar served him as a lever for 
moving the beams. 

The work was executed so fast that it was 
rather a rapid growth than a construction. He 
who has never seen a military pontooner at his 
work can scarcely form an idea of this rapid- 
ity. 

The eastern gullet was still narrower than the 
western. There were but five or six feet of in- 
terval between the rocks. The smallness of 
this opening was an assistance. The space to 
be fortified and closed up being very little, the 
apparatus would be stronger, and might be more 
simple. Horizontal beams, therefore, sufficed, 
the upright ones being useless. 

The first cross-pieces of the breakwater being 
fixed, Gilliatt mounted upon them and listened 
once more. 

The murmurs had become significant. 

He continued his construction. He support- 
ed it with two catheads of the Durande, bound 
to the frame of beams by cords passed through 
the three pulley-sheaves. He made the whole 
fast by chains. 

The construction was little more than a co- 
lossal hurdle, having beams for rods, and chains 
in the place of wattles. 

It seemed woven together quite as much as 
built. 

He multiplied the fastenings, and added nails 
where they were necessary. 

Having obtained a great quantity of bar iron 
from the wreck, he had been able to make a 
large number of these heavy nails. 

While still at work, he broke some biscuit 
with his teeth. He was thirsty, but he could 
not drink, having no more fresh water. He 
had emptied the can at his meal of the evening 
before. 

He added afterwards four or five more pieces 
of timber ; then climbed again upon the barrier 
and listened. 

The noises from the horizon had ceased ; all 
was still. 

The sea was smooth and quiet, deserving all 
those complimentary phrases which worthy cit- 
izens bestow upon it when satisfied with a trip — 
“a mirror,” “a pond,” “like oil,” and so forth. 
The deep blue of the sky responded to the deep 
green tint of the ocean. The sapphire and the 
emerald hues vied with each other. Each were 
perfect. Not a cloud on high, not a line of 
foam below. In the midst of all this splendour, 
the April sun rose magnificently. It was im- 
possible to imagine a lovelier day. 

On the verge of the horizon a flight of birds 
of passage formed a long dark line against the 
sky. They were flying fast, as if alarmed. 

Gilliatt set to work again to raise the break- 
water. 

He raised it as high as he could — as high. 


109 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


Indeed, as the curving of the rocks would per- 
mit. 

Towards noon the sun appeared to him to 
give more than its usual warmth. Noon is the 
critical time of the day. Standing upon the 
powerful frame which he had built up, he paused 
again to survey the wide expanse. 

The sea was more than tranquil. It was a 
dull dead calm. No sail was visible. The sky 


was everywhere clear; but from blue it had be- 
come white. The whiteness was singular. To 
the west, and upon the horizon, was a little spot 
of a sickly hue. The spot remained in the same 
place, but by degrees grew larger. Near the 
breakers the waves shuddered, but very gently. 

Gilliatt had done well to build his breakwater. 

A tempest was approaching. 

The elements had determined to give battle- 


BOOK III. 

THE STRUGGLE. 


I. 

EXTREMES MEET. 

Nothing is more threatening than a late 
equinox. 

The appearance of the sea presents a strange 
phenomenon, resulting from what may be called 
the arrival of the ocean winds. 

In all seasons, but particularly at the epoch 
of the Syzygies, at the moment when least ex- 
pected, the sea sometimes becomes singularly 
tranquil. That vast perpetual movement ceases ; 
a sort of drowsiness and languor overspreads it ; 
and it seems weary and about to rest. Every 
rag of bunting, from the tiny streamer of the 
fishing-boat to the great flag of the ships of war, 
droops against the mast. The admiral’s flag, 
the Royal and Imperial ensigns, sleep alike. 

Suddenly all these streamers begin to flutter 
gently. 

If there happen to be clouds, the moment has 
then come for making the formation of the cirri ; 
if the sun is setting, for observing the red tints 
of the horizon ; or if it be night and there is a 
moon, for looking attentively for the halo. 

It is then that the captain or commander of 
a squadron, if he happen to possess one of those 
storm indicators, the inventor of which is un- 
known, notes his instrument carefully, and takes 
his precautions against the south wind, if the 
clouds have an appearance like dissolved sugar; 
or against the north, if they exfoliate in crys- 
tallizations like brakes of brambles, or like fir 
woods. Then, too, the poor Irish or Breton 
fisherman, after having consulted some myste- 
rious gnomon engraved by the Romans or by de- 
mons upon one of those straight enigmatical 
stones, which are called in Brittany Menhir , and 
in Ireland Cruach , hauls his boat up on the 
shore. 

Meanwhile the serenity of sky and ocean con- 
tinues. The day dawns radiant, and the Auro- 
ra smiles. It was this which filled the old poets 
and seers with religious horror ; for men dared 
to suspect the falsity of the sun. Solem quis 
dicere falsum audeat ? 

The sombre vision of nature’s secret laws is 
interdicted to man by the fatal opacity of sur- 


rounding things. The most terrible and per- 
fidious of her aspects is that which masks the 
convulsions of the deep. 

Some hours, and even days sometimes, pass 
thus. Pilots raise their telescopes here and 
there. The faces of old seamen have always 
an expression of severity left upon them by the 
vexation of perpetually looking out for changes. 

Suddenly a great confused murmur is heard. 
A sort of mysterious dialogue takes place in the 
air. 

Nothing unusual is seen. 

The wide expanse is tranquil. 

Yet the noises increase. The dialogue be- 
comes more audible. 

There is something beyond the horizon. 

Something terrible. It is the wind. 

The wind, or rather that populace of Titans 
which we call the gale. The unseen multitude. 

India knew them as the Maroubs, Judea as 
the Keroubim, Greece as the Aquilones. They 
are the invisible winged creatures of the Infi- 
nite. Their blasts sweep over the earth. 

o 

II. 

THE OCEAN WINDS. 

Whence come they? From the immeasur- 
able deep. Their wide wings need the breadth 
of the ocean gulf ; the spaciousness of desert 
solitudes. The Atlantic, the Pacific — those vast 
blue plains — are their delight. They hasten 
thither in flocks. Commander Page witnessed, 
far out at sea, seven water-spouts at once. They 
wander there, wild, terrible ! The ever-ending, 
yet eternal flux and reflux, is their work. The 
extent of their power, the limits of their will, 
none know. They are the Sphinxes of tho ' 
abyss ; Gama was their (Edipus. In that dark, 
ever-moving expanse, they appear with faces 
of cloud. He who perceives their pale linea- 
ments in that wide dispersion, the horizon of 
the sea, feels himself in presence of an unsub- 
duable power. It might be imagined that the 
proximity of human intelligence disquieted 
them, and that they revolted against it. The 


110 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


mind of man is invincible, but the elements 
baffle him. He can do nothin# against the 
power which is everywhere, and which none 
can bind. The gentle breath becomes a gale, 
smites with the force of a war-club, and then 
becomes gentle again. The winds attack with 
a terrible crash, and defend themselves by fall- 
ing into nothingness. He who would encoun- 
ter them must use artifice. Their varying tac- 
tics, their swift, redoubled blows, confuse. They 
fl v as often as they attack. They are tenacious 
and impalpable. Who can circumvent them? 
The prow of the Argo, cut from an oak of Do- 
dona’s grove, that mysterious pilot of the bark, 
spoke to them, and they insulted that pilot-god- 
dess. Columbus, beholding their approach near 
La Pint a, mounted upon the poop and address- 
ed them with the first verses of St. John’s Gos- 
pel. Stivcouf defied them: “Here come the 
gang,” he used to say. Napier greeted them 
with cannon balls. They assume the dictator- 
ship of chaos. 

Chaos is theirs, in which to wreak their mys- 
terious vengeance ; the den of the winds is more 
monstrous than that of lions. How many corpses 
lie in its deep recesses, where the winds beat 
without pity upon that obscure and ghastly 
mass! The winds are heard wheresoever they 
go, but they give ear to none. Their acts re- 
semble crimes. None know on whom they cast, 
their hoary surf; with what ferocity they hover 
over shipwrecks, looking at time as if they flung 
their impious foam-flakes in the face of heaven. 
They are the tyrants of unknown regions. “X«- 
oghi spaventosi ,” murmured the Venetian mar- 
iners. 

The trembling fields of space are subjected 
to their fierce assaults. Things unspeakable 
come to pass in those deserted regions. Some 
horseman rides in the gloom ; the air is full of 
a forest sound ; nothing is visible, but the tramp 
of cavalcades is heard. The noonday is over- 
cast with sudden night; a tornado passes. Or 
it is midnight, which suddenly becomes bright 
as day; the polar lights are in the heavens. 
Whirlwinds in opposite ways, and in a sort of 
hideous dance, a stamping of the storms upon 
the waters. A cloud, overburdened, opens and 
falls to earth. Other clouds, filled with red 
light, flash and roar, then frown again omi- 
nously. Emptied of their lightnings, they are 
but as spent brands. Pent-up rains dissolve in 
mists. Yonder sea appears a fiery furnace in 
which the rains are falling ; flames seem to is- 
sue from the waves. The white gleam of the 
ocean under the shower is reflected to marvel- 
lous distances. The different masses transform 
themselves into uncouth shapes. Monstrous 
whirlpools make strange hollows in the sky. 
The vapours revolve, the waves spin, the giddy 
Naiads roll; sea and sky are livid; noises as 
of cries of despair are in the air. 

Great sheaves of shadow and darkness arc 
gathered up, trembling in the far depths of the 
sky. At times there is a convulsion. The ru- 
mour becomes tumult, as the wave becomes 


surge. The horizon, a confused mass of strata, 
oscillating ceaselessly, murmurs in a continual 
undertone. Strange and sudden outbursts break 
through the monotony. Cold airs rush forth, 
succeeded by warm blasts. The trepidation of 
the sea betokens anxious expectation, agony, 
terror profound. Suddenly the hurricane copies 
down, like a wild beast, to drink of the ocean — 
a monstrous draught! The water rises to the 
invisible mouth ; a mound of water is formed ; 
the swell increases, and the waterspout appears; 
the Prester of the ancients, stalactite above, 
stalagmite below; a whirling, double-inverted 
cone; a point in equilibrium upon another, the 
embrace of two mountains — a mountain of foam 
ascending, a mountain of vapour descending — 
terrible coition of the cloud and the wave. 
Like the column in Holy Writ, the waterspout 
is dark by day and luminous by night. In its 
presence the thunder itself is silent, and seems 
cowed. 

The vast commotion of those solitudes has 
its gamut, a terrible crescendo. There is the 
gust, the squall, the storm, the gale, the tem- 
pest, the whirlwind, the waterspout, the seven 
chords of the lyre of the winds, the seven notes 
of the firmament. The heavens are a clear 
space, the sea a vast round ; but a breath pass- 
es, they have vanished, and all is fury and wild 
confusion. 

Such are these inhospitable realms. 

The winds rush, fly, swoop down, die out, 
commence again; hover above, whistle, roar, 
and smile ; frenzied, wanton, unbridled, or sink- 
ing at ease upon the raging waves. Their 
bowlings have a harmony of their own. They 
make all the heavens sonorous. They blow in 
the cloud as in a trumpet; they sing through 
the infinite space with the mingled tones of clar- 
ions, horns, bugles, and trumpets — a sort of 
Promethean fanfare. 

Such was the music of ancient Pan. Their 
harmonies are terrible. They have a colossal 
joy in the darkness. They drive and disperse 
great ships. Night and day, in all seasons, 
from the tropics to the pole, there is no truce ; 
sounding their fatal trumpet through the tan- 
gled thickets of the clouds and waves, they pur- 
sue the grim chase of vessels in distress. They 
have their packs of bloodhounds, and take their 
pleasure, setting them to bark among the rocks 
and billows. They huddle the clouds together, 
and drive them diverse. They mould and knead 
the supple waters as with a million hands. 

The water is supple because it is incompress- 
ible. It slips away without effort. Borne down 
on one side, it escapes on the other. It is thus 
that waters become waves, and that the billows 
are a token of their liber ty. 

♦ 

m. 

THE NOISES EXPLAINED. 

The grand descent of winds upon the world 
takes place at the equinoxes. At this period 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


the balance of tropic and pole librates, and the 
vast atmospheric tides pour their flood upon one 
hemisphere, and their ebb upon another. The 
feigns of Libra and Aquarius have reference to 
these phenomena. 

It is the time of tempests. 

The sea awaits their coming, keeping silence. 

Sometimes the sky looks sickly. Its face is 
wan. A thick dark veil obscures it. The mar- 
iners observe with uneasiness the angry aspect 
of the clouds. 

But it is its air of calm contentment which 
they dread the most. A smiling sky in the 
equinoxes is the tempest in gay disguise. It 
was under skies like these that “The Tower of 
Weeping Women,” in Amsterdam, was filled 
with wives and mothers scanning the far hori- 
zon. 

When the vernal or autumnal storms delay 
to break, they are gathering strength ; hoard- 
ing up their fury for more sure destruction. 
Beware of the gale that has been- long delayed. 
It was Angot who said that “ the sea pays well 
old debts.” 

When the delay is unusually long, the sea 
betokens her impatience only by a deeper calm, 
but the magnetic intensity manifests itself by 
what might he called a fiery humour in the sea. 
Fire issues from the waves; electric air, phos- 
phoric water. The sailors feel a strange lassi- 
tude. This time is particularly perilous for iron 
vessels; their hulls are then liable to produce 
variations of the compass, leading them to 
destruction. The Transatlantic steam-vessel 
“Iowa” perished from this cause. 

To those who are familiar with the sea, its 
aspect at this moment is singular. It may be 
imagined to be both desiring and fearing the 
approach of the cyclone. Certain unions, though 
strongly urged by nature, are attended by this 
strange conjunction of terror and desire. The 
lioness in her tenderest moods flies from the 
lion. Thus the sea, in the fire of her passion, 
trembles at the near approach of her union with 
the tempest. The nuptials are prepared. Like 
the marriages of the ancient emperors, they are 
celebrated with immolations. The fete is her- 
alded with disasters. 

Meanwhile, from yonder deeps, from the great 
open sea, from the unapproachable latitudes, 
from the lurid horizon of the watery waste, 
from the utmost bounds of the free ocean, the 
winds pour down. 

Listen ; for this is the famous equinox. 

The storm prepares mischief. In the old 
mythology these entities were recognised, indis- 
tinctly moving, in the grand scene of nature. 
JEolus plotted with Boreas. The alliance of 
element with clement is necessary ; they divide 
their task. One has to give impetus to the 
wave, the cloud, the stream : night is an aux- 
iliary, and must be employed. There are com- 
passes to be falsified, beacons to be extinguish- 
ed, lanterns of lighthouses to be masked, stars 
to be hidden. The sea must lend her aid. Ev- 
ery storm is preceded by a murmur. Behind 


111 

the horizon line there is a premonitory whisper- 
ing among the hurricanes. 

This is the noise which is heard afar off in 
the darkness amidst the terrible silence of the 
sea. 

It was this significant whispering which Gil- 
liatt had noted. The phosphorescence on the 
water had been the first warning ; this murmur 
the second. 

If the demon Legion exists, he is assuredly 
no other than the wind. 

The wind is complex, but the air is one. 

Hence it follows that all storms are mixed. 
The unity of the air demonstrates it. 

The entire abyss of heaven takes part in a 
tempest, the entire ocean also. The totality 
of its forces is marshalled for the strife. A wave 
is the ocean gulf ; a gust is a gulf of the atmos- 
phere. A contest with a storm is a contest with 
all the powers of sea and sky. 

It was Messier, that great authority among 
naval men, the pensive astronomer of the little 
lodge at Cluny, who said, “The wind comes 
from everywhere and is everywhere.” He had 
no faith in the idea of winds imprisoned even 
in inland seas. With him there were no Med- 
iterranean winds; he declared that he recog- 
nised them as they wandered about the earth. 
He affirmed that on a certain day, at a certain 
hour, the Fohn of the Lake of Constance, the 
ancient Favonins of Lucretius, had traversed 
the horizon of Paris ; on another day, the Bora 
of the Adriatic ; on another day, the whirling 
Notus, which is supposed to be confined in the 
round of the Cyclades. He indicated their cur- 
rents. He did not believe it impossible that 
the “ Autan,” which circulates between Corsica 
and the Balearic Isles, could escape from its 
bounds. He did not admit the theory of winds 
imprisoned like bears in their dens. It was lie, 
too, who said that “every rain comes from the 
tropics, and every flash of lightning from the 
pole.” The wind, in fact, becomes saturated 
with electricity at the intersection of the colures 
which marks the extremity of the axis, and with 
water at the equator; bringing moisture from 
the equatorial line, and the electric fluid from 
the poles. 

The wind is ubiquitous. 

It is certainly not meant by this that the 
winds never move in zones. Nothing is better 
established than the existence of those contin- 
uous air currents ; and aerial navigation by 
means of the wind-boats, to which the passion 
for Greek terminology has given the name of 
“ aeroscaphes,” may one day succeed in utiliz- 
ing the chief of these streams of wind. The 
regular course of air streams is an incontestable 
fact. There are both rivers of wind and rivu- 
lets of wind, although their branches are exact- 
ly the reverse of water currents ; for in the air 
it is the rivulets which flow out of the rivers, and 
the smaller rivers which flow out of the great 
streams instead of falling into them. Hence, 
instead of concentration, we have dispersion. 

The united action of the winds and the unity 


112 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


of the atmosphere result from this dispersion. 
The displacement of one molecule produces the 
displacement of another. The vast body of air 
becomes subject to one agitation. To these 
profound causes of coalition we must add the 
irregular surface of the earth, whose mountains 
furrow the atmosphere, contorting and diverting 
the winds from their course, and determining 
the directions of counter currents in infinite ra- 
diations. 

The phenomenon of the wind is the oscilla- 
tion of two oceans one against the other; the 
ocean of air, superimposed upon the ocean of 
water, rests upon these currents, and is con- 
vulsed with this vast agitation. 

The indivisible cannot produce separate ac- 
tion. No partition divides wave from wave. 
The islands of the Channel feel the influence of 
the Cape of Good Hope. , Navigation every- 
where contends with the same monster ; the sea 
is one hydra. The waves cover it as with a 
coat of scales. 

Upon that unity reposes an infinite variety. 


IY. 

TURBA TUItMA. 

According to the compass there are thirty- 
two winds, that is to say, thirty-two points. But 
these directions may be subdivided indefinitely. 
Classed by its directions, the wind is incalcula- 
ble; classed by its kinds, it is infinite. Homer 
himself would have shrunk from the task of 
enumerating them. 

The polar current encounters the tropical cur- 
rent. Heat and cold are thus combined ; the 
equilibrium is disturbed by a shock ; the wave of 
wind issues forth and is distended, scattered and 
broken up in every direction in fierce streams. 
The dispersion of the gusts shakes the stream- 
ing locks of the wind upon the four corners of 
the horizon. 

All the winds which blow are there. The 
wind of the Gulf Stream, which disgorges the 
great fogs of Newfoundland ; the wind of Peru, 
in the region of silent heavens, where no man 
ever heard the thunder roar; the wind of Nova 
Scotia, where flies the great auk (A/ca impennis ) 
with his furrowed beak ; the iron whirlwinds of 
the Chinese Seas ; the wind of Mozambique, 
which destroys the canoes and junks ; the elec- 
tric wind, which the people of Japan denounce 
by the beating of a gong; the African wind, 
which blows between Table Mountain and the 
Mountain of the Devil, where it gains its liber- 
ty ; the currents of the equator, which pass over 
the trade winds, describing a parabola, the sum- 
mit of which is always to the west ; the Pluto- 
nian wind, which issues from craters, the terrible 
breath of flames ; the singular wind peculiar to 
the volcano Awa, which occasions a perpetual 
olive tint in the north ; the Java monsoon, 
against which the people construct those case- 
mates known as hurricane houses ; the branch- 


ing north winds, called by the English “Bush- 
winds;” the curved squalls of the Straits of Ma- 
lacca, observed by Horsburgh ; the powerful 
south-west wind, called Pampero in Chili, and 
Rebojo at Buenos Ayres, which carries the great 
condor out to sea, and saves him from the pit 
where the Indian, concealed under a bullock 
hide newly stripped, watches for him, lying on 
his back, and bending his great bow with hia 
feet; the chemical wind, which, according to 
Lemery, produces thunder-bolts from the clouds; 
the Harmattan of the Caflfres ; the Polar snow- 
driver, which harnesses itself to the everlasting 
icebergs; the wind of the Gulf of Bengal, which 
sweeps over a continent to pillage the triangu- 
lar town of wooden booths at Nijni-Novogorod, 
in which is held the great fair of Asia ; the 
wind of the Cordilleras, agitator of great waves 
and forests ; the wind of the Australian Archi- 
pelago, where the bee-hunters take the wdld 
hives hidden under the forks of the branches of 
the giant eucalyptus ; the Sirocco, the Mistral, 
the Hurricane, the dry winds, the inundating 
and diluvian winds, the torrid winds which scat- 
ter dust from the plains of Brazil upon the 
streets of Genoa, which obey and yet revolt 
against the diurnal rotation, and of which Iler- 
rara said, l Malo viento contra el so/;” those 
winds which hunt in couples conspiring mis- 
chief, the one undoing the work of the other; 
and those old w’inds which assailed Columbus 
on the coast of Veraguas, and which during 
forty days, from the 21st of October to the 28th 
of November, 1520, delayed and nearly frustra- 
ted Magellan’s approach to the Pacific ; and 
those which dismasted the Armada and con- 
founded Philip II. Others, too, there are, of 
the names of which there is no end. The 
winds, for instance, which carry showers of frogs 
and locusts, and drive before them clouds of liv- 
ing things across the ocean ; those which blow 
in what arc called “Wind-jumps,” and whose 
function is to destroy ships at sea ; those which 
at a single blast throw the cargo out of trim, 
and compel the vessel to continue her course 
half broadside over; the winds which construct 
the circum-cumuli ; the winds which mass to- 
gether the circum-strati ; the dark, heavy winds 
swelled with rains ; the winds of the hail- 
storms ; the fever winds, whose approach sets 
the salt springs and sulphur springs of Calabria 
boiling; those W’hich give a glittering appear- 
ance to the fur of African panthers, prowling 
among the bushes of Cape Ferro; those which 
come shaking from the cloud, like the tongue 
of a trigonocephal, the terrible forked lightning; 
and those which bring whirlwinds of black snow. 
Such is the legion of winds. 

The Douvres rock heard their dis'tant tramp 
at the moment when Gilliatt was constructing 
his breakwater. 

As we have said, the wind means the combi- 
nation of all the winds of the earth. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


113 


Y. 

gilliatt’s alternatives. 

The mysterious forces had chosen their time 
well. 

Chance, if chance exists, is sometimes far- 
seeing. 

While the sloop had been anchored in the 
little creek of “The Man” rock, and as long as 
the machinery had been prisoned in the wreck, 
Gilliatt’s position had been impregnable. The 
sloop was in safety; the machinery sheltered. 
The Douvres, which held the hull of the Du- 
rande fast, condemned it to slow destruction, 
but protected it against unexpected accidents. 
In any event, one resource had remained to 
him. If the engine had been destroyed, Gilliatt 
would have been uninjured. He had still the 
sloop by which to escape. 

JBut to wait till the sloop was removed from 
the anchorage where she was inaccessible ; to 
allow it to be fixed in the defile of the Douvres ; 
to watch, as it were, until the sloop, too, was en- 
tangled in the rocks ; to permit him to complete 
the salvage, the moving, and the final embarka- 
tion of the machinery ; to do no damage to that 
wonderful construction by which one man was 
enabled to put the whole aboard his bark ; to 
acquiesce, in fact, in the success of his exploits 
so far — this was but the trap which the elements 
had laid for him. Now, for the first time, he be- 
gan to perceive in all its sinister characteristics 
the trick which the sea had been meditating so 
long. 

The machinery, the sloop, and their master 
were all now within the gorge of the rocks. 
They formed but a single point. One blow, 
and the sloop might be dashed to pieces on 
the rock, the machinery destroyed, and Gilliatt 
drowned. 

The situation could not have been more crit- 
ical. 

The sphinx which men have imagined con- 
cealing herself in the cloud, seemed to mock 
him with a dilemma. 

“ Go or stay.” 

To go would have been madness ; to remain 
was terrible. 


VI. 

THE COMBAT. 

Gilliatt ascended to the summit of the Great 
Douvre. 

From hence he could see around the horizon. 

The western side was appalling. A wall of 
cloud spread, across it, barring the wide expanse 
from side to side, and ascending slowly from the 
horizon towards the zenith. This wall, straight 
lined, vertical, without a crevice in its height, 
without a rent in its structure, seemed built by 
the square, and measured by the plumb-line. It 
was cloud in the likeness of granite. Its escarp- 
ment, completely perpendicular at the southern 
extremity, curved a little towards the north, like 
II 


a bent sheet of iron, presenting the steep, slip- 
pery face of an inclined plane. The dark wall 
enlarged and grew; but its entablature never 
ceased for a moment to be parallel with the 
horizon line, which was almost indistinguishable 
in the gathering darkness. Silently, and alto- 
gether, the airy battlements ascended. No un- 
dulation, no wrinkle, no projection changed its 
shape or moved its place. The aspect of this 
immobility in movement was impressive. The- 
sun, pale in the midst of a strange, sickly trans- 
parence, lighted up this outline of the Apoca- 
lypse. Already the cloudy bank had blotted 
out one half the space of the sky, shelving like 
the fearful tatus of the abyss. It was the up- 
rising of a dark mountain between earth and 
heaven. 

It was night falling suddenly upon midday. 

There was a heat in the air as from an oven, 
door, coming from that mysterious mass on 
mass. The skv, which from blue had become 
white, was now turning from white to a slaty 
gray. The sea beneath, leaden-hued and dull. 
No breath, no wave, no noise. Far as eye could 
reach, the desert ocean. No sail was visible on 
any side. The birds had disappeared. Some 
monstrous treason seemed abroad. 

The wall of cloud grew visibly larger. 

This moving mountain of vapours, which was 
approaching the Douvres, was one of those which 
might be called the clouds of battle. Sinister 
appearances ; some strange, furtive glance seem- 
ed cast upon the beholder through that obscure 
mass up-piled. 

The approach was terrible. 

Gilliatt observed it closely, and muttered to 
himself, “I am thirsty enough, but you will give 
me plenty to drink.” 

He stood there motionless a few moments, his 
eye fixed upon the cloud-bank, as if mentally 
taking a sounding of the tempest. 

His galerienne was in the pocket of his jacket ; 
he took it out and placed it on his head. Then 
he fetched from the cave, which had so long 
served him for a sleeping -place, a few things 
which he had kept there in reserve ; he put on 
his overalls, and attired himself in his water- 
proof overcoat, like a knight who puts on his 
armour at the moment of battle. He had no 
shoes, but his naked feet had become hardened 
to the rocks. 

This preparation for the storm being com- 
pleted, he looked down upon his breakwater, 
grasped the knotted cord hurriedly, descended 
from the plateau of the Douvre, stepped on to 
the rocks below, and hastened to his store cav- 
ern. A few moments later he was at work. 
The vast silent cloud might have heard the 
strokes of his hammer. With the nails, ropes, 
and beams which still remained, he constructed 
for the eastern gullet a second frame, which he 
succeeded in fixing at ten or twelve feet from 
the other. 

The silence was still profound. The blades 
of grass between the cracks of the rocks were 
not stirred. 


114 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


The sun disappeared suddenly. Gilliatt 
looked up. 

The rising cloud had just reached it. It 
was like the blotting out of day, succeeded by a 
mingled pale reflection. 

The immense wall of cloud had changed its 
appearance. It no longer retained its unity. 
It had curved on reaching the zenith, whence 
it spread horizontally over the rest of the heav- 
ens. It had now its various stages. The 
tempest formation was visible, like the strata 
in the side of a trench. It was possible to dis- 
tinguish the layers of the rain from the beds of 
hail. There was no lightning, but a horrible, 
diffused glare ; for the idea of horror may be 
attached to light. The vague breathing of the 
storm was audible ; the silence was broken by 
an obscure palpitation. Gilliatt, silent also, 
watched the giant blocks of vapour grouping 
themselves overhead, forming the shapeless 
mass of clouds. Upon the horizon brooded 
and lengthened out a band of mist of ashen 
hue ; in the zenith, another band of lead color. 
Pale, ragged fragments of cloud hung from the 
great mass above upon the mist below. The 
pile of cloud which formed the background 
was wan, dull, gloom}’. A thin, whitish, trans- 
verse cloud, coming no one could tell whither, 
cut the high dark wall obliquely from north to 
south. One of the extremities of this cloud 
trailed along the surface of the sea. At the 
point where it touched the waters a dense red 
vapour was visible in the midst of the darkness. 
Below it, smaller clouds, quite black and very 
low, were flying as if bewildered or moved by 
opposite currents of air. The immense cloud 
behind increased from all points at once, dark- 
ened the eclipse, and continued to spread its 
sombre pall. In the east, behind Gilliatt, there 
was only one clear porch, in the heavens, which 
was rapidly being closed. Without any feel- 
ing of wind abroad, a strange flight of gray 
downy particles seemed to pass ; they were 
fine, and scattered as if some gigantic bird had 
been plucked of its plumage behind the bank 
of cloud. A dai'k, compact roof had gradually 
formed itself, which on the verge of the horizon 
touched the sea, and mingled in darkness with 
it. The beholder had a vague sense of some- 
thing advancing steadily towards him. It was 
vast, heavy, ominous. Suddenly an immense 
peal of thunder burst upon the air. 

Gilliatt himself felt the shock. The rude 
reality in the midst of that visionary region 
has something in it terrific. The listener fan- 
cies that he hears something falling in the 
chamber of giants. No electric flash accom- 
panied the report. It was a blind peal. The 
silence was profound again. There was an in- 
terval, as when combatants take up their posi- 
tion. Then appeared slowly, one after the 
other, great shapeless flashes ; these flashes 
were silent. The wall of cloud was now a 
vast cavern, with roofs and arches. Outlines 
of forms were traceable among them ; mon- 
strous heads were vaguely shadowed forth ; 


rocks seemed to stretch out ; elephants bearing 
turrets, seen for a moment, vanished. A col- 
umn of vapour, straight, round, and dark, and 
surmounted by a white mist, simulated the form 
of a colossal steaip-vessel engulfed, and hissing 
and smoking beneath the waves. Sheets of 
cloud undulated like folds of giant flags. In 
the centre, under a thick purple pall, a nucleus 
of dense fog sunk motionless, inert, impenetra- 
ble by the electric fires : a sort of hideous foetus 
in the bosom of the tempest. 

Suddenly Gilliatt felt a breath moving his 
hair. Two or three large drops of rain fell 
heavily around him on the rock. Then there 
was a second thunder-clap. The wind was 
rising. 

The terror of darkness was at its highest 
point. The first peal of thunder had shaken 
the sea ; the second rent the wall of cloud 
from top to base ; a breach was visible ; the 
pent-up deluge rushed towards it; the rent be- 
came like a gulf filled with rain. The out- 
pouring of the tempest had begun. 

The moment was terrible. 

Rain, wind, lightnings, thunder, waves swirl- 
ing upwards to the clouds, foam, hoarse noises, 
whistlings, mingled together, like monsters sud- 
denly unloosened. 

For a solitary man, imprisoned with an over- 
loaded bark between two dangerous rocks in 
mid-ocean, no crisis could have been more men 
acing. The danger of the tide, over which he 
had triumphed, was nothing compared with the 
danger of the tempest. 

Surrounded on all sides by dangers, Gilliatt, 
at the last moment, and before the crowning 
peril, had developed an ingenious strategy. He 
had secured his basis of operations in the ene- 
mies’ territory ; had pressed the rock into his 
service. The Douvres, originally his enemy, 
had become his second in that immense duel. 

| Out of that sepulchi-e he had constructed a 
fortress. He was built up among these formi- 
dable sea ruins. He was blockaded, but well 
defended. He had, so to speak, set his back 
against the wall, and stood face to face with the 
hurricane. He had barricaded the narrow strait, 
that highway of the waves. This, indeed, was 
the only possible course. It seemed as if the 
ocean, like other despots, might be brought to 
reason by the aid of barricades. The sloop 
might be considered secure on three sides. 
Closely wedged between the two interior walls 
of the rock, made fast by three anchorings, she 
was sheltered from the north by the Little Dou- 
vre, on the south by the Great one : terrible es- 
carpments, more accustomed to wreck vessels 
than to save them. On the western side she 
was protected by the frame of timbers made 
fast and nailed to the rocks, a tried barrier 
which had withstood the rude flood-tide of the 
sea; a veritable citadel-gate, having for its 
sides the columns of the rock — the two Douvres 
themselves. Nothing was to be feared from 
that side. It was on the eastern-side only that 
there w r as danger. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


115 


On that side there was no protection hut the 
breakwater. A breakwater is an apparatus for 
dividing and distributing. It requires at least 
two frames. Gilliatt had only had time to 
construct one. He was compelled to build the 
second in the very presence of the tempest. 

Fortunately, the wind came from the north- 
west. The wind is not always adroit in its 
attacks. The north-west wind, which is the 
ancient “galerna,” had little effect upon the 
Douvres. It assailed the rocks in flank, and 
drove the waves neither against the one nor 
the other of the two gullets; so that, instead 
of rushing into a defile, they dashed themselves 
against a wall. 

But the currents of the wind are curved, and 
it was probable that there would be some sud- 
den change. If it should veer to the east be- 
fore the second frame could be constructed, the 
peril would be great. The irruption of the 
sea into the gorge would be complete, and all 
would probably be lost. 

The wildness of the storm went on increasing. 
The essence of a tempest is the rapid succession 
of its blows. That is its strength ; but it is also 
its weakness. Its fury gives the opportunity 
to human intelligence, and man spies its weak 
points for his defence; but under what over- 
whelming assaults ! No respite, no interrup- 
tion, no truce, no pause for taking breath. 
There seems an unspeakable cowardice in that 
prodigality of inexhaustible resources. 

All the tumult of the wide expanse rushed 
towards the Douvres. Voices were heard in 
the darkness. What could they be ? The an- 
cient terror of the sea was there. At times 
they seemed to speak as if some one was utter- 
ing words of command. There were clamours, 
strange trepidations, and then that majestic roar 
which the mariners call the “ocean cry.” The 
indefinite and flying eddies of the wind whistled, 
while curling the waves and flinging them like 
giant quoits, cast by invisible athletes, against 
the breakers. The enormous surf streamed over 
all the rocks — torrents above, foam below. Then 
the roaring was redoubled. No uproar of men 
or beasts could yield an idea of that din which 
mingled with the incessant breaking of the sea. 
The clouds cannonaded, the hailstones poured 
their volleys, the surf mounted to the assault. 
As far as eye could reach, the sea was white — 
ten leagues of yeasty water filled the horizon. 
Doors of fire were opened, clouds seemed burnt 
by clouds, and showed like smoke above a neb- 
ulous red mass, resembling burning embers. 
Floating conflagrations rushed together and 
amalgamated, each changing the shape of the 
other. From the midst of the dark roof a terri- 
ble arsenal appeared to be emptied out, hurling 
downward from the gulf, pell-mell, water-spouts, 
hail, torrents, purple fire, phosphoric gleams, 
darkness, and lightnings. 

Meanwhile Gilliatt seemed to pay no atten- 
tion to the storm. His head was bent over his 
work The second frame-work began to ap- 
proach completion. To every clap of thunder 


he replied with a blow of his hammer, making 
a cadence which was audible even amidst that 
tumult. He was bareheaded, for a gust had 
carried away his galerienne. 

He suffered from a burning thirst. Little 
pools of rain had formed in the rocks around 
him. From time to time he took some water in 
the hollow of his hand and drank. Then, with- 
out even looking upward to observe the storm, 
he applied himself anew to his task. 

All might depend upon a moment. He knew 
the fate that awaited him if his breakwater 
should not be completed in time. Of what 
avail could it be to lose a moment in looking 
for the approach of death ? 

The turmoil around him was like th^t of a 
vast bubbling cauldron. Crash and uproar 
were everywhere. Sometimes the lightning 
seemed to descend a sort of ladder. The elec- 
tric flame returned incessantly to the same 
points of the rock, where there were probably 
metallic veins. Hailstones fell of enormous 
size. Gilliatt was compelled to shake the folds 
of his overcoat, even the pockets of which be- 
came filled with hail. 

The storm had now rotated to the west, and 
was expending its fury upon the barricades of 
the two Douvres. But Gilliatt had faith in his 
breakwaters, and with good reason. These bar- 
ricades, made of a great portion of the fore part 
of the Durande, took the shock of the waves 
easily. Elasticity is a resistance. The exper- 
iments of Stephenson establish the fact that, 
against the waves, which are themselves elastic, 
a raft of timber, joined and chained together in 
a certain fashion, will form a more powerful ob- 
stacle than a breakwater of masonry. The bar- 
riers of the Douvres fulfilled these conditions. 
They were, moreover, so ingeniously made fast, 
that the waves striking them beneath were like 
hammers beating in nails, pressing and consoli- 
dating the work upon the rocks. To demolish 
them it would have been necessary to overthrow 
the Douvres themselves. The surf, in fact, was 
only able to cast over upon the sloop some flakes 
of foam. On that side, thanks to the barrier, 
the tempest ended only in harmless insult. 
Gilliatt turned his back upon the scene. He 
heard composedly its useless rage upon the 
rocks behind him. 

The foam-flakes, coming from all sides, were 
like flights of down. The vast, irritated ocean 
drowned the rocks, dashed over them, and raged 
within — penetrated into the network of their in- 
terior fissures, and issued again from the granit- 
ic masses by the narrow chinks, forming a kind 
of inexhaustible fountains playing peacefully in 
the midst of that deluge. Here and there a 
silvery network fell gracefully from these spouts 
into the sea. 

The second frame of the eastern barrier was 
nearly completed. A few more knots of rope 
and ends of chains, and this new rampart would 
be ready to play its part in barring out the 
storm. 

Suddenly there was a great brightness ; the 


) 


116 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


rain ©eased; the clouds rolled asunder; the 
wind had just shifted ; a sort of high, dark win- 
dow opened in the zenith, and the lightnings 
were extinguished. The end seemed to have 
come. It was but the commencement. 

The change of wind was from the north-west 
to the north-east. 

The storm was preparing to burst forth again 
with a new legion of hurricanes. The north 
was about to mount to the assault. Sailors call 
this dreaded moment of transition the “return 
storm.” The southern wind brings most rain, 
the north wind most lightning. 

The attack, coming now from the east, was 
directed against the weak point of the position. 

This time Gilliatt interrupted his work and 
looked around him. 

He stood erect upon a curved projection of 
the rock behind the second barrier, which was 
nearly finished. If the first frame had been 
carried away, it would have broken down the 
second, which was not yet consolidated, and 
must have crushed him. Gilliatt, in the place 
that he had chosen, must in that case have been 
destroyed before seeing the sloop, the machin- 
ery, and all his work shattered and swallowed 
up in the gulf. Such was the possibility which 
awaited him. He accepted it, and contemplated 
it sternly. 

In that wreck of all his hope, to die at once 
would have been his desire ; to die first, as he 
would have regarded it — for the machinery pro- 
duced in his mind the effect of a living being. 
He moved aside his hair, which was beaten over 
his eyes by the wind, grasped his trusty mallet, 
drew himself up in a menacing attitude, and 
awaited the event. 

He was not kept long in suspense. 

A flash of lightning gave the signal ; the livid 
opening in the zenith closed ; a driving torrent 
of rain fell ; then all became dark, save where 
the lightnings broke forth once more. The at- 
tack had recommenced in earnest. 

A heavy swell, visible from time to time in 
the blaze of the lightning, was rolling in the 
east beyond “The Man” rock. It resembled 
a huge wall of glass. It was green and with- 
out foam, and it stretched across the wide ex- 
panse. It was advancing towards the break- 
water, increasing as it approached. It was a 
singular kind of gigantic cylinder, rolling upon 
the ocean. The thunder kept up a hollow rum- 
bling. 

The great -wave struck “The Man” rock, 
broke in twain, and passed beyond. The bro- 
ken wave, rejoined, formed a mountain of water, 
and, instead of advancing in parallel line as be- 
fore, came down perpendicularly upon the break- 
water. 

The shock was terrific : the whole wave be- 
came a roaring surf. 

It is impossible for those who have not wit- 
nessed them to imagine those snowy avalanches 
which the sea thus precipitates, and under which 
it engulfs for the moment rocks of more than a 
hundred feet in height — such, for example, as the 


Great Anderlo at Guernsey, and the Pinnacle at 
Jersey. At Saint Mary of Madagascar it passe* 
completely over the Tintingue. 

For some moments the sea drowned every- 
thing. Nothing was visible except the furious 
waters, an enormous breadth of foam, the white- 
ness of a winding-sheet blowing in the draught 
of a sepulchre ; nothing was heard but the roar- 
ing storm working devastation around. 

When the foam subsided, Gilliatt was still 
standing at his post. 

The barrier had stood firm. Not a chain was 
broken, not a nail displaced. It had exhibited 
under the trial the two chief qualities of a break- 
water; it had proved flexible as a hurdle and 
firm as a wall. The surf falling upon it had 
dissolved into a shower of drops. 

A river of foam rushing along the zigzags of 
the defile, subsided as it approached the sloop. 

The man who had put this curb upon the 
fury of the ocean took no rest. 

The storm fortunately turned aside its fury 
for a moment. The fierce attack of the waves 
was renewed upon the wall of the rock. There 
was a respite, and Gilliatt took advantage of it 
to complete the interior barrier. 

The daylight faded upon his labours. The 
hurricane continued its violence upon the flank 
of the rocks with a mournful solemnity. The 
stores of fire and water in the sky poured out 
incessantly without exhausting themselves. The 
undulations of the wind above and below were 
like the movements of a dragon. 

Nightfall brought scarcely any deeper night. 
The change was hardly felt, for the darkness 
was never complete. Tempests, alternately 
darkening and illumining by their lightnings, 
are merely intervals of the visible and invisible. 
All is pale glare, and then all is darkness. 
Spectral shapes issue forth suddenly, and' return 
as suddenly into the deep shade. 

A phosphoric zone, tinged with the hue of 
the aurora borealis, appeared like ghastly flames 
behind the dense clouds, giving to all things 
a wan aspect, and making the rain-drops lumi- 
nous. 

This uncertain light aided Gilliatt, and di- 
rected him in his operations. By its help he 
was enabled to raise the forward barrier. The 
breakwater was now almost complete. As he 
was engaged in making fast a powerful cable 
to the last beam, the gale blew directly in his 
face ; this compelled him to raise his head. 
The wind had shifted abruptly to the north- 
east. The assault upon the eastern gullet re- 
commenced. Gilliatt cast his eyes around the 
horizon. Another great wall of water was ap- 
proaching. 

The wave broke with a great shock ; a second 
followed ; then another and another still ; then 
five or six almost together ; then a last shock of 
tremendous force. 

This last wave, which was an accumulation 
( of forces, had a singular resemblance to a liv- 
ing thing. It would not have been difficult to 
imagine in the midst of that swelling mass tho 


117 


THE TOILERS 

shapes of fins and gill-coverings. It fell heav- 
ily and broke upon the barriers. Its almost 
animal form was torn to pieces in the shape of 
spouts and gushes, resembling the crushing to 
death of some sea hydra upon that block of rocks 
and timbers. The swell rushed through, sub- 
siding but devastating as it went. The huge 
wave seemed to bite and cling to its victim as it 
died. The rock shook to its base. A savage 
howling mingled with the roar ; the foam flew 
far like the spouting of a leviathan. 

The subsidence exhibited the extent of the 
ravages of the surf. This last escalade had not 
been ineffectual. The breakwater had suffered 
this time. A long and heavy beam, torn from 
the first barrier, had been carried over the sec- 
ond, and hurled violently upon the projecting 
rock on which Gilliatt had stood but a moment 
before. By good fortune he had not returned 
there. Had he done so, his death had been in- 
evitable. 

There was a remarkable feature in the fall of 
this beam, which, by preventing the frame-work 
rebounding, saved Gilliatt from greater dangers. 
It even proved useful to him, as will be seen, in 
another way. 

Between the projecting rock and the interior 
wall of the defile there was a large interval, 
something like the notch of an axe or the split 
of a wedge. One of the extremities of the tim- 
ber hurled into the air by the waves had stuck 
fast into this notch in falling. The gap had 
become enlarged. 

Gilliatt was struck with an idea. It w r as 
that of bearing heavily on the other extremity. 

The beam caught by one end in the nook, 
which it had widened, projected from it straight 
as an outstretched arm. This species of arm 
projected parallel with the anterior wall of the 
defile, and the disengaged end stretched from 
its resting-place about eighteen or twenty inch • 
es. A good distance for the object to be at- 
tained. 

Gilliatt raised himself by means of his hands, 
feet, and knees to the escarpment, and then 
turned his back, pressing both his shoulders 
against the enormous lever. The beam was 
long, which increased its raising power. The 
rock was already loosened ; but he was com- 
pelled to renew his efforts again and again. 
The sweat-drops rolled from his forehead as rap- 
idly as the spray. The fourth attempt exhaust- 
ed all his powers. There was a cracking noise ; 
the gap, spreading in the shape of a fissure, open- 
ed its vast jaws, and the heavy mass fell into the 
narrow space of the defile with a noise like the 
echo of the thunder. 

The mass fell straight, and without breaking, 
resting in its bed like a Druid cromlech precipi- 
tated in one piece. 

The beam which had served as a lever de- 
scended with the rock, and Gilliatt, stumbling 
forward as it gave way, narrowly escaped fall- 
ing. 

The bed of the pass at this part was full of 
huge round stones, and there was little water. 


OF THE SEA. 

The monolith lying in the boiling foam, the 
flakes of which fell on Gilliatt where he stood, 
stretched from side to side of the great parallel 
rocks of the defile, and formed a transversal 
wall, a sort of cross-stroke between the two es- 
carpments. Its two ends touched the rocks. 
It had been a little too long to lie flat, but its 
summit of soft rock was struck off with the fall. 
The result of this fall was a singular sort of 
cul-de-sac , which may still be seen. The water 
behind this stony barrier is almost always tran- 
quil. 

This was a rampart more invincible still than 
the forward timbers of the Durande fixed be- 
tween the two Douvres. 

The barrier came opportunely. 

The assaults of the sea had continued. The 
obstinacy of the waves is always increased by 
an obstacle. The first frame began to show 
signs of breaking up. One breach, however 
small, in a breakwater, is always serious. It 
inevitably enlarges, and there is no means of 
supplying its place, for the sea would sweep 
away the workmen. 

A flash which lighted up the rocks revealed 
to Gilliatt the nature of the mischief — the beams 
broken down, the ends of rope and fragments of 
chain swinging in the winds, and a rent in the 
centre of the apparatus. The second frame was 
intact. 

Though the block of stone so powerfully 
overturned by Gilliatt in the defile behind the 
breakwater was the strongest possible barrier, 
it had a defect. It was too low. The surge 
could not destroy, but could sweep over it. 

It was useless to think of building it higher. 
Nothing but masses of rock could avail upon a 
barrier of stone ; but how could such masses be 
detached ? or, if detached, how could they be 
moved, or raised, or piled, or fixed ? Timbers 
may be added, but rocks cannot. 

Gilliatt was not Enceladus. 

The very little height of this rocky isthmus 
rendered him anxious. 

The effects of this fault were not long in show- 
ing themselves. The assaults upon the break- 
water were incessant; the heavy seas seemed 
not merely to rage, but to attack with determ- 
ination to destroy it. A sort of trampling noise 
was heard upon the jolted frame-work. 

Suddenly the end of a binding strake, detach- 
ed from the dislocated frame, was swept away 
over the second barrier and across the trans- 
versal rock, falling in the defile, where the wa- 
ter seized and carried it into the sinuosities of 
the pass. Gilliatt lost sight of it. It seemed 
probable that it would do some injury to the 
sloop. Fortunately, the water in the interior of 
the rocks, shut in on all sides, felt little of the 
commotion without. The waves there were 
comparatively trifling, and the shock was not 
likely to be very severe. For the rest, he had 
little time to spare for reflection upon this mis- 
hap. Every variety of danger was arising at 
once ; the tempest was concentrated upon the 
vulnerable point ; destruction was imminent. 


118 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


The darkness was profound for a moment : 
the lightnings paused — a sort of sinister con- 
nivance. The cloud and the sea became one : 
there was a dull peal. 

This was followed by a terrible outburst. The 
frame which formed the front of the barriers was 
swept away. The fragments of beams were vis- 
ible in the rolling waters. The sea was using 
the first breakwater as an engine for making a 
breach in the second. 

Gilliatt experienced the feeling of a general 
who sees his advanced guard driven in. 

The second construction of beams resisted the 
shock. The apparatus behind it was power- 
fully secured and buttressed. But the broken 
frame was heavy, and was at the mercy of the 
waves, which were incessantly hurling it for- 
ward and withdrawing it. The ropes and chains 
which remained unsevered prevented its entirely 
breaking up, and the qualities which Gilliatt 
had given it as a means of defence made it, in 
the end, a more effective weapon of destruction. 
Instead of a buckler, it had become a battering- 
ram. Besides this, it was now full of irregu- 
larities from breaking ; ends of timbers project- 
ed from all parts ; and it was, as it were, cover- 
ed with teeth and spikes. No sort of arm could 
have been more* effective, or more fitted for the 
handling of the tempest. It was the projectile, 
while the sea played the part of the catapult. 

The blows succeeded each other with a dis- 
mal regularity. Gilliatt, thoughtful and anx- 
ious, behind that barricaded portal listened to 
the sound of death knocking loudly for admit- 
tance. 

He reflected with bitterness that, but for the 
fatal entanglement of the funnel of the Durande 
in the wreck, he would have been at that very 
moment, and even since the morning, once more 
at Guernsey, in the port, with the sloop out of 
danger, with the machinery saved. 

The dreaded moment arrived. The destruc- 
tion was complete. There was a sound like a 
death-rattle. The entire frame of the break- 
water, the double apparatus crushed and min- 
gled confusedly, came in a whirl of foam, rush- 
ing upon the stone barricade like chaos upon a 
mountain, where it stopped. Here the frag- 
ments lay together, a mass of beams penetrable 
by the waves, but still breaking their force. The 
conquered barrier struggled nobly against de- 
struction. The waves had shattered it, and in 
their turn were shattered against it. Though 
overthrown, it still remained in some degree ef- 
fective. The rock which barred its passage, an 
immovable obstacle, held it fast. The defile, 
as I have said, was very narrow at that point ; 
the victorious whirlwind had driven forward, 
mingled and piled up the wreck of the break- 
water in this narrow pass. The very violence 
of the assault, by heaping tip the mass and driv- 
ing the broken ends one into the other, had con- 
tributed to make the pile firm. It was destroyed, 
but immovable. A few pieces of timber only 
were swept away, and dispersed by the waves. 
One passed through the air and very near to Gil- 


liatt. He felt the counter-current upon his for* 
head. 

Some waves, however, of that kind, which in 
great tempests return with an imperturbable 
regularity, swept over the ruins of the break- 
water. They fell into the defile, and, in spite 
of the many angles of the passage, set the wa- 
ters within in commotion. The waters began 
to roll through the gorge ominously. The mys- 
terious embraces of the waves among the rocks 
were audible. 

What means were there of preventing this 
agitation extending as far as the sloop? It 
would not require a long time for the blasts of 
wind to create a tempest through all the wind- 
ings of the pass. A few heavy seas would be 
sufficient to stave in the sloop, and scatter her 
burden. 

Gilliatt shuddered as he reflected. 

But he was not disconcerted. No defeat 
could daunt his soul. 

The hurricane had now discovered the true 
plan of attack, and was rushing fiercely between 
the two walls of the strait. 

Suddenly a crash was heard, resounding and 
prolonging itself through the defile at some dis- 
tance behind him — a crash more terrible than 
any he had yet heard. 

It came from the direction of the sloop. 

Something disastrous was happening there. 

Gilliatt hastened towards it. 

From the eastern gullet Where he was, he 
could not see the sloop on account of the sharp 
turns of the pass. At the last turn, he stopped 
and waited for the lightning. 

The first flash revealed to him the position 
of affairs. 

The rush of the sea through the eastern en" 
trance had been met by a blast of wind from the 
other end. A disaster was near at hand. 

The sloop had received no visible damage ; 
anchored as she was, the storm had little power 
over her, but the carcass of the Durande was 
distressed. ^ 

In such a tempest, the wreck presented a con- 
siderable surface. It was entirely out of the 
sea in the air, exposed. The breach which 
Gilliatt had made, and which he had passed 
the engine through, had rendered the hull still 
weaker. The keelson was snapped, the verte- 
bral column of the skeleton was broken. 

The hurricane had passed over it. Scarcely 
more than this was needed to complete its de- 
struction. The planking of the deck had bent 
like an opened book. The dismemberment had 
begun. It was the noise of this dislocation 
which had reached Gilliatt’s ears in the mids-t 
of the tempest. 

The disaster which presented itself as he ap- 
proached appeared almost irremediable. 

The square opening which he had cut in the 
keel had become a gaping wound. The wind 
had converted the smooth-cut hole into a rag- 
ged fracture. This transverse breach separated 
the wreck in two. The after-part, nearest to 
the sloop, had remained firm in its bed of rocks* 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


119 


The forward portion which faced him was hang- ' 
ing. A fracture, while it holds, is a sort of 
hinge. The whole mass oscillated, as the wind 
moved it, with a doleful noise. Fortunately, 
the sloop was no longer beneath it. 

But this swinging movement shook the other 
portion of the hull, still wedged and immovable 
as it was between the two Douvres. From 
shaking to casting down the distance is not far. 
Under the obstinate assaults of the gale, the 
dislocated part might suddenly carry away the 
other portion, which almost touched the sloop. 
In this case, the whole wreck, together with the 
sloop and the engine, must be swept into the 
sea and swallowed up. 

All this presented itself to his eyes. It was 
the end of all. How could it be prevented? 

Gilliatt was one of those who are accustomed 
to snatch the means of safety out of danger 
itself. He collected his ideas for a moment. 
Then he hastened to his arsenal, and brought 
his hatchet. 

The mallet had served him well ; it was now 
the turn of the axe. 

He mounted upon the wreck, got a footing 
on that part of the planking which had not given 
way, and leaning over the precipice of the pass 
between the Douvres, he began to cut away the 
broken joists and the planking which supported 
the hanging portion of the hull. 

His object was to etfect the separation of the 
two parts of the wreck, to disencumber the half 
which remained firm, to throw overboard what 
the waves had seized, and thus share the prey 
with storm. The hanging portion of the wreck, 
borne down by the wind and by its own weight, 
adhered only at one or two poi.its. The entire 
wreck resembled a folding screen, one leaf of 
which, half hanging, beat against the other. 
Five or six pieces of the planking only, bent and 
started, but not broken, still held. Their frac- 
tures creaked and enlarged at every gust, and 
the axe, so to speak, had but to help the labour 
of the wind. This more than half-severed con- 
dition, while it increased the facility of the work, 
also rendered it dangerous. The whole might 
give way beneath him at any moment. 

The tempest had veaelied its highest point. 
The convulsion of the sea reached the heavens. 
Hitherto the storm had been supreme ; it had 
seemed to work its own imperious will, to give 
the impulse, to drive the waVes to frenzy while 
still preserving a sort of sinister lucidity. Be- 
low was fury, above anger. The heavens are 
the breath, the ocean only foarhj hence the au- 
thority of the wind. But the intoxication of 
its own horrors had troubled it. It had become 
a mere whirlwind — it was a blindness leading to 
night. There are times when tempests become 
frenzied, when the heavens are attacked with a 
sort of delirium, when the firmament raves and 
hurls its lightnings blindly. No terror is great- 
er than this. It is a hideous moment. The 
trembling of the rock was at its height. Every 
storm has a mysterious course, but now it loses 
its appointed path. It is the most dangerous 


point of the tempest. “ At that moment,” says 
Thomas Fuller, “the wind is a furious maniac.” 
It is at that instant that that continuous dis- 
charge of electricity takes place which Bidding- 
ton calls “the cascade of lightnings.” It is at 
that instant that in the blackest spot of the 
clouds (none know why, unless it be to spy the 
universal terror) a circle of blue light appears, 
which the Spanish sailors of ancient times call- 
ed the eye of the tempest, el ojo de la tempestad. 
That terrible eye looked down upon Gilliatt. 

Gilliatt, on his part, was surveying the heav- 
ens. He raised his head now. After every 
stroke of his hatchet he stood erect, and gazed 
upwards almost haughtily. He was, or seemed 
to be, too near destruction not to feel self-sus- 
tained. Would he despair ? No! In the pres- 
ence of the wildest fury of the ocean he was 
watchful as well as bold. He planted his feet 
only where the wreck was firm. He ventured 
his life and yet was careful ; for his determined 
spirit, too, had reached its highest point. Ilis 
strength had grown tenfold greater. He had 
become heated with his own intrepidity. The 
strokes of his hatchet were like blows of defi- 
ance. He seemed to have gained in directness 
what the tempest had lost. A pathetic strug- 
gle ! On the one hand, an indefatigable will ; 
on the other, inexhaustible power. It was a 
contest with the elements for the prize at his 
feet. The clouds took the shape of Gorgon 
masks in the immensity of the heavens ; every 
possible form of terror appeared : the rain came 
from the sea, the surf from the cloud ; phantoms 
of the wind bent down ; meteoric faces revealed 
themselves, and were again eclipsed, leaving the 
darkness more monstrous : then there was noth- 
ing felt but the torrents coming from all sides — 
a boiling sea ; cumuli heavy with hail, ashen- 
hued, ragged-edged, appeared seized with a sort 
of whirling frenzy; strange rattlings filled the 
air ; the inverse currents of electricity observed 
by Yolta darted their sudden flashes from cloud 
to cloud. The prolongation of the lightnings 
was terrible ; the flashes passed near to Gilliatt. 
The very ocean seemed astonished. He passed 
to and fro upon the tottering wreck, making the 
deck tremble under his steps, striking, cutting, 
hacking with the hatchet in his hand, pallid in 
the gleam of the lightning, his long hair stream- 
ing, his feet naked, in rags, his face covered with 
the foam of the sea, grand still amid that mael- 
strom of the thunder-storm. 

Against these furious powers man has no 
weapon but his invention. Invention was Gil- 
liatt’s triumph. His object w-as to allow all the 
dislocated portions of the wreck to fall together. 
For this reason he cut away the broken parts 
without entirely separating them, leaving some 
parts on which they still swung. Suddenly he 
stopped, holding his axe in the air. The oper- 
ation was complete. The entire portion went 
with a crash. 

The mass rolled down between the two Dou- 
vres, just below Gilliatt, who stood upon the 
wreck, leaning over and observing the fall. It 


120 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


fell perpendicularly into the water, struck the 
rocks, and stopped in the defile before touching 
the bottom. Enough remained out of the water 
to rise more than twelve feet above the waves. 
The vertical mass of planking formed a wall be- 
tween the two Douvres; like the rock over- 
turned crosswise higher up the defile, it allowed 
only a slight stream of foam to pass through at 
its two extremities, and thus was a fifth barri- 
cade improvised by Gilliatt against the tempest 
in that passage of the seas. 

The hurricane itself, in its blind fury, had as- 
sisted in the construction of this last barrier. 

It was fortunate that the proximity of the two 
walls had prevented the mass of wreck from fall- 
ing to the bottom. This circumstance gave the 
barricade greater height ; the water, besides, 
could flow under the obstacle, which diminished 
the power of the waves. That which passes be- 
low can not pass over. This is partly the secret 
of the floating breakwater. 

Henceforth, let the storm do what it might, 
there was nothing to fear for the sloop or the 
machinery. The water around them could not 
become agitated again. Between the barrier of 
the Douvres, which covered them on the west, 
and the barricade which protected them from 
the east, no heavy sea or wind could reach 
them. 

Gilliatt had plucked safety out of the catas- 
trophe itself. The storm had been his fellow- 
labourer in the work. 

This done, he took a little water in the palm 
of his hand from one of the rain -pools, and 
drank ; and then, looking upward at the storm, 
said, with a smile, “ Bungler !” 

Human intelligence combating with brute 
force experiences an ironical joy in demonstra- 
ting the stupidity of its antagonist, and compel- 
ling it to serve the very objects of its fury, and 
Gilliatt felt something of that immemorial de- 
sire to insult his invisible enemy, which is as old 
as the heroes of the Iliad. 

He descended to the sloop, and examined it 
by the gleam of the lightning. The relief which j 
he had been able to give to his distressed bark 
was well-timed. She had been much shaken 


during the last hour, and had begun to give 
way. A hasty glance revealed no serious in- 
jury. Nevertheless, he was certain that the ves- 
sel had been subjected to violent shocks. As 
soon as the waves had subsided, the hull had 
righted itself ; the anchors had held fast ; as to 
the machine, the four chains had supported it 
admirably. 

While Gilliatt was completing this survey, 
something white passed before his eyes and van- 
ished in the gloom. It was a sea-mew. 

No sight could be more welcome in tempest- 
uous weather. When the birds reappear, the 
storm is departing. The thunder redoubled — 
another good sign. 

The violent efforts of the storm had broken 
its force. All mariners know that the last or- 
deal is severe, but short. The excessive vio- 
lence of the thunder-storm is the herald of the 
end. 

The rain stopped suddenly. Then there was 
only a surly rumbling in the heavens. The 
storm ceased with the suddenness of a plank 
falling to the ground. The immense mass of 
clouds became disorganized. A strip of clear 
sky appeared between them. Gilliatt was as- 
tonished — it was broad daylight. 

The tempest had lasted nearly twenty hours. 

The wind which had brought the storm car- 
ried it away. A dark pile was diffused over the 
horizon ; the broken clouds were flying in con- 
fusion across the sky. From one end to the 
other of the line there was a movement of re- 
treat ; a long muttering was heard, gradually 
decreasing, a few last drops of rain fell, and all 
those dark masses charged with thunder depart- 
ed like a terrible multitude of chariots. 

Suddenly the wide expanse of sky became 
blue. 

Gilliatt perceived that he was wearied. Sleep 
swoops down upon the exhausted frame like a 
bird upon its prey. He drooped, and sank upon 
the deck of the bark without choosing his posi- 
tion, and there slept. Stretched at length and 
inert, he remained thus for some hours, scarcely 
distinguishable from the beams and joists among 
which he lay. 


BOOK IV. 

PITFALLS IN THE WAY. 


I. 

HE WHO IS HUNGRY IS NOT ALONE. 

When he awakened he was hungry. 

The sea was growing calmer ; but there was 
6till a heavy swell, which made his departure, 
for the present at least, impossible. The day, 
too, was far advanced. For the sloop, with its 
burden, to get to Guernsey before midnight, it 
was necessary to start in the morning. 

Although pressed by hunger, Gilliatt began 


by stripping himself, the only means of getting 
warmth. His clothing was saturated by the 
storm, but the rain had washed out the sea-wa- 
ter, which rendered it possible to dry them. 

He kept nothing on but his trowsers, which 
he turned up nearly to the knees. 

His overcoat, jacket, overalls, and sheepskin 
he spread out and fixed with large round stones 
here and, there. 

Then he thought of eating. 

He had recourse to his knife, which he was 



♦ 




* 






* 










THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


careful to sharpen, and to keep always in good 
condition, and he detached from the rocks a few 
limpets, similar in kind to the clonisses of the 
Mediterranean. It is well known that these 
are eaten raw : but, after so many labours, so 
various and so rude, the pittance was meagre. 
His biscuit was gone ; but of water he had now 
abundance. 

He took advantage of the receding tide to 
wander among the rocks in search of cray-fish. 
There was extent enough of rock to hope for a 
successful search. 

But he had not reflected that he could do 
nothing with these without fire to cook them. 
If he had taken the trouble to go to his store- 
cavern, he would have found it inundated with 
the rain. His wood and coal were drowned, and 
of his store of tow, which served him for tinder, 
there was not a fibre ^hich was not saturated. 
No means remained of lighting a fire. 

For the rest, his blower was completely dis- 
organized. The screen of the hearth of his 
forge was broken down ; the storm had sacked 
and devastated his workshop. With what tools 
and apparatus had escaped the general wreck, 
he could still have done carpentry work, but he 
could not have accomplished any of the labours 
of the smith. Gilliatt, however, never thought 
of his workshop for a moment. 

Drawn in another direction by the pangs of 
hunger, he had pursued without much reflection 
his search for food. He wandered, not in the 
gorge of the rocks, but outside, among the small- 
er breakers. It was there that the Durande, 
ten weeks previously, had first struck upon the 
sunken reef. 

For the search that Gilliatt was prosecuting, 
this part was more favourable than the interior. 
At low water the crabs are accustomed to crawl 
out into the air. They seem to like to warm 
themselves in the sun, where they swarm some- 
times to the disgust of loiterers, who recognise 
in these creatures, with their awkward sidelong 
gait, climbing clumsily from crack to crack the 
lower stages of the rocks like the steps of a stair- 
case, a sort of sea vermin. 

For two months Gilliatt had lived upon these 
vermin of the sea. 

On this day, however, the cray-fish and crabs 
were both wanting. The tempest had driven 
them into their solitary retreats, and they had 
not yet mustered courage to venture abroad. 
Gilliatt held his open knife in his hand, and 
from time to time scraped a cockle from under 
the bunches of seaweed, which he ate while still 
walking. 

He could not have been far from the very 
spot where Sieur Clubin had perished. 

As Gilliatt was determining to content him- 
self with the sea-urchins and the chdtaignes de 
7/ier , a little clattering noise at his feet aroused 
his attention. A large crab, startled by his ap- 
proach, had just dropped into a pool. The wa- 
ter was shallow, and he did not lose sight of it. 

He chased the crab along the base of the rock ; 
the crab moved fast. 


I2i 

Suddenly it was gone. 

It had buried itself in some crevice under the 
rock. 

Gilliatt clutched the projections of the rock, 
and stretched out to observe where it shelved 
away under the water. 

As he suspected, there was an opening there 
in which the creature had evidently taken ref- 
uge. It was more than a crevice — it was a kind 
of porch. 

The sea entered beneath it, but was not deep. 
The bottom was visible, covered with large peb- 
bles. The pebbles were green and clothed with 
conferva 1 , indicating that they were never dry. 
They were like the tops of a number of heads 
of infants, covered with a kind of green hair. 

Holding his knife between his teeth, Gilliatt 
descended, by the help of feet and hands, from 
the upper part of the escarpment, and leaped 
into the water. It reached almost to his shoul- 
ders. 

He made his way through the porch, and 
found himself in a blind passage, with a roof in 
the form of a rude arch over his head. The 
walls were polished and slippery. The crab 
was nowhere visible. He gained his feet and 
advanced in daylight growing fainter, so that he 
began to lose the power to distinguish objects. 

At about fifteen paces, the vaulted roof ended 
overhead. He had penetrated beyond the blind 
passage. There was here more space, and com 
sequently more daylight. The pupils of his 
eyes, moreover, had dilated ; he could see pret- 
ty clearly. He was taken by surprise. 

He had made his way again into the singu- 
lar cavern which he had visited in the previous 
month. The only difference was that he had 
entered by the way of the sea. 

It was through the submarine arch that he 
had remarked before that he had just entered. 
At certain low tides it was accessible. 

His eyes became more accustomed to the 
place. His vision became clearer and clearer. 
He was astonished. He found himself again 
in that extraordinary palace of shadows ; saw 
again before his eyes that vaulted roof, those 
columns, those purple and blood-like stains, that 
vegetation rich with gems, and, at the farther 
end, that crypt or sanctuary, and that altar-like 
stone. He took little notice of these details, 
but their impression was in his mind, and he 
saw that the place was unchanged. 

He observed before him, at a certain height 
in the wall, the crevice through which he had 
penetrated the first time, and which, from the 
point where he now stood, appeared inaccessi- 
ble. 

Near the moulded arch, he remarked those 
low dark grottoes — a sort of caves within the 
cavern — which he had already observed from a 
distance. He now stood nearer to them. The 
entrance to the nearest to him was out of the 
water, and easily approachable. Nearer still 
than this recess he noticed, above the level of 
the water, and within reach of his hand, a hori- 
zontal fissure. It seemed to him probable that 


122 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


the crab had taken refuge there, and he plunged 
his hand in as far as he was able, and groped 
about in that dusky aperture. 

Suddenly he felt himself seized by the arm. 
A strange indescribable horror thrilled through 
him. 

Some living thing— thin, rough, flat, cold, 
slimy — had twisted itself round his naked arm, 
in the dark depth below. It crept upward to- 
wards his chest. Its pressure was like a tight- 
ening cord, its steady persistence like that of a 
screw. In less than a moment some mysterious 
spiral form had passed round his wrist and el- 
bow, and had reached his shoulder. A sharp 
point penetrated beneath the arm-pit. 

Gilliatt recoiled ; but he had scarcely power 
to move! He was, as it were, nailed to the 
place. With his left hand, which was disen- 
gaged, he seized his knife, which he still held 
between his teeth, and with that hand, holding 
the knife, he supported himself against the rocks, 
while he made a desperate effort to withdraw 
his arm. He succeeded in only disturbing his 
persecutor, which wound itself still tighter. It 
was supple as leather, strong as steel, cold as 
night. 

A second form — sharp, elongated, and narrow 
— issued out of the crevice, like a tongue out of 
monstrous jaws. It seemed to lick his naked 
body. Then, suddenly stretching out, became 
longer atjd thinner, as it crept over his skin, and 
wound itself round him. At the same time a 
terrible sense of pain, comparable to nothing he 
had ever known, compelled all his muscles to 
contract. He felt upon his skin a number of 
flat rounded points. It seemed as if innumera- 
ble suckers had fastened to his flesh and were 
about to drink his blood. 

A third long undulating shape issued from 
the hole in the rock ; seemed to feel its way 
about his body ; lashed round his ribs like a 
cord, and fixed itself there. 

Agony when at its height is mute. Gilliatt 
uttered no cry. There was sufficient light for 
him to see the repulsive forms which had en- 
tangled themselves about him. A fourth lig- 
ature, but this one, swift as an arrow, darted 
towards his stomach, and wound around him 
there. 

It was impossible to sever or tear away the 
slimy bands which were twisted tightly round 
his body, and were adhering by a number of 
points. Each of the points was the focus of 
frightful and singular pangs. It was as if num- 
berless small mouths were devouring him at the 
same time. 

A fifth long, slimy, riband-shaped strip issued 
from the hole. It passed over the others, and 
wound itself tightly around his chest. The 
compression increased his sufferings. He could 
scarcely breathe. 

These living thongs were pointed at their ex- 
tremities, but broadened like the blade of a 
sword towards its hilt. All belonged evidently 
to the same centre. They crept and glided 
about him ; he felt the strange points of press- 


ure, which seemed to him like mouths, change 
their places from time to time. 

Suddenly a large, round, flattened, glutinous 
mass issued from beneath the crevice. It was 
the centre ; the five thongs were attached to it 
like spokes to the nave of a wheel. On the op- 
posite side of this disgusting monster appeared 
the commencement of three other tentacles, the 
ends of which remained under the rock. In the 
middle of this slimy mass appeared two eyes. 

The eyes were fixed on Gilliatt. 

He recognised the Devil-fish. 


II. 


THE MONSTER. 

It is difficult for those who have not seen it 
to believe the existence of the devil-fish. 

Compared to this creature, the ancient hydras 
are insignificant. 

At times we are tempted to imagine that the 
vague forms which float in our dreams may en- 
counter in the realm of the Possible attractive 
forces, having power to fix their lineaments and 
shape living beings out of these creatures of our 
slumbers. The Unknown has power over these 
i strange visions, and out of them composes mon- 
sters. Orpheus, Homer, and Hesiod imagined 
{ only the Chimera: Providence has created this 
terrible creature of the sea. 

Creation abounds in monstrous forms of life. 
The wherefore of this perplexes and affrights the 
religious thinker. 

If terror were the object of its creation, noth- 
ing could be imagined more perfect than the 
devil-fish. 

The whale has enormous bulk, the devil-fish 
is comparatively small ; the jararaca makes a 
hissing noise, the devil-fish is mute ; the rhi- 
noceros has a horn, the devil-fish has none ; the 
scorpion has a dart, the devil-fish has no dart; 
the shark has sharp fins, the devil-fish has no 
fins; the vespertilio-vampyre has wings with 
| claws, the devil-fish has no wings; the porcu- 
j pine has his spines, the devil-fish has no spines ; 
the sword-fish has his sword, the devil-fish has 
! none ; the torpedo has its electric spark, the 
devil-fish has none ; the toad has its poison, the 
devil-fish has none ; the viper has its venom, the 
j devil-fish has no venom ; the lion has its talons, 
i the devil-fish has no talons ; the griffon has its 
beak, the devil-fish has no beak; the crocodile 
has its jaws, the devil-fish has no teeth. 

The devil-fish has no muscular organization, 
no menacing cry, no breastplate, no horn, no 
dart, no claw, no tail with which to hold or 
bruise ; no cutting fins, or wings with nails ; no 
prickles, no sword, no electric discharge, no poi- 
son, no talons, no beak, no teeth, yet he is, of 
all creatures, the most formidably armed. 

What, then, is the devil-fish ? It is the sea 
vampyre. 

The swimmer who, attracted by the beauty 
of the spot, ventures among breakers in the open 


y 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


123 


sea, where the still waters hide the splendours 
of the deep, in the hollows of unfrequented rocks, 
in unknown caverns abounding in sea-plants, 
testacea, and Crustacea, under the deep portals 
of the ocean, runs the risk of meeting it. If 
that fate should be yours, be not curious, but 
fly. The intruder enters there dazzled, but 
quits the spot in terror. 

This frightful apparition, which is always 
possible among the rocks in the open sea, is a 
grayish form, which undulates in the water. 
It is the thickness of a man’s arm, and in length 
nearly five feet. Its outline is ragged. Its 
form resembles an umbrella closed, and with- 
out handle. This irregular mass advances slow- 
ly towards you. Suddenly it opens, and eight 
radii issue abruptly from around a face with 
two eyes. These radii are alive; their undu- 
lation is like lambent flames ; they resemble, 
when opened, the spokes of a wheel of four or 
five feet in diameter. A terrible expansion! 
It springs upon its prey. 

The devil-fish harpoons its victim. 

It winds around the sufferer, covering and 
entangling him in its long folds. Underneath, 
it is yellow; above, a dull, earthy hue. Nothing 
could render that inexplicable shade dust-col- 
oured. Its form is spider-like, but its tints are 
like those of the chameleon. When irritated, 
it becomes violet. Its most horrible character- 
istic is its softness. 

Its folds strangle, its contact paralyzes. 

It has an aspect like gangrened or scabrous 
flesh. It is a monstrous embodiment of disease. 

It adheres closely to its prey, and cannot be 
torn away — a fact which is due to its power of 
exhausting air. The eight antennae, large at 
their roots, diminish gradually, and end in nee- 
dle-like points. Underneath each of these feel- 
ers range two rows of pustules, decreasing in 
size, the largest ones near the head, the smaller 
at the extremities. Each row contains twenty- 
five of these. There are, therefore, fifty pus- 
tules to each feeler, and the creature possesses, 
in the whole, four hundred. These pustules 
are capable of acting like cupping-glasses. 
They are cartilaginous substances, cylindrical, 
horny, and livid. Upon the large species they 
diminish gradually from the diameter of a five- 
franc piece to the size of a split pea. These 
small tubes can be thrust out and withdrawn by 
the animal at will. They are capable of pier- 
cing to a depth of more than an inch. 

This sucking apparatus has all the regularity 
and delicacy of a key-board. It stands forth 
at one moment, and disappears the next. The 
most perfect sensitiveness cannot equal the con- 
tractibility of these suckers, always propor- 
tioned to the internal movement of the animal 
and its exterior circumstances. The monster 
is endowed with the qualities of the sensitive 
plant. 

This animal is the same as those which mar- 
iners call Poulps ; which science designates 
Cephalopterae, and which ancient legends call 
Krakens. It is the English sailors who call I 


them “ Devil-fish, ” and sometimes Bloodsuck- 
ers. In the Channel Islands they are called 

pieuvres. 

They are rare at Guernsey, very small at 
Jersey ; but near the island of Sark are numer- 
ous as well as very large. 

An engraving in Sonnini’s edition of Buffon 
represents a Cephaloptera crushing a frigate. 
Denis Montfort, in fact, considers the Poulp, 01 
Octopod, of high latitudes, strong enough to de- 
stroy a ship. Bory Saint Vincent doubts this; 
but he shows that in our regions they will at- 
tack men. Near Brecq-Hou, in Sark, they 
show a cave where a devil-fish, a few years 
since, seized and drowned a lobster-fisher. Pe- 
ron and Lamarck are in error in their belief 
that the “poulp,” having no fins, cannot swim. 
He who writes these lines has seen with his 
own eyes at Sark, in the cavern called the Bou- 
tiques, a pieuvre swimming and pursuing a 
bather. When captured and killed, this speci- 
men was found to be four English feet broad, 
and it was possible to count its four hundred 
suckers. The monster thrust them out convul- 
sively in the agony of death. 

According to Denis Montfort, one of those 
observers whose marvellous intuition sinks or 
raises them to the level of magicians, the poulp 
is almost endowed with the passions of man : 
it has its hatreds. In fact, in the Absolute, to 
be hideous is to hate. 

Hideousness struggles under the natural law 
of elimination, which necessarily renders it 
hostile. 

When swimming, the devil-fish rests, so to 
speak, in its sheath. It swims with all its 
parts drawn close. It may be likened to a 
sleeve sewn up with a closed fist within. The 
protuberance, which is the head, pushes the 
water aside, and advances with a vague undu- 
latory movement. Its two eyes, though large, 
are indistinct, being of the colour of the wa. 
ter. 

When in ambush, or seeking its prey, it re- 
tires into itself, grows smaller and condenses 
itself. It is then scarcely distinguishable in 
the submarine twilight. 

At such times it looks like a mere ripple in 
the water. It resembles anything except a liv- 
ing creature. 

The devil-fish is crafty. When its victim is 
unsuspicious, it opens suddenly. 

A glutinous mass, endowed with a malignant 
will ; what can be more horrible ? 

It is in the most beautiful azure depths of 
the limpid water that this hideous, voracious 
polyp delights. It always conceals itself, a 
fact which increases its terrible associations. 
When they are seen, it is almost invariably 
after they have been captured. 

At night, however, and particularly in the 
hot season, it becomes phosphorescent. These 
horrible creatures have their passions — their 
submarine nuptials. Then it adorns itself, 
burns and illumines; and from the height of 
I some rock it may be seen in the deep obscurity 


124 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


of the waves below, expanding with a pale ir- 
radiation — a spectral sun. 

The devil-fish not only swims — it walks. It 
is partly fish, partly a reptile. It crawls upon 
the bed of the sea. At these times it makes 
use of its eight feelers, and creeps along in the 
fashion of a species of swift-moving caterpillar. 

It has no blood, no bones, no flesh. It is 
soft and flabby — a skin with nothing inside. 
Its eight tentacles may be turned inside out 
like the fingers of a glove. 

It has a single orifice in the centre of its 
radii, which appears at first to be neither the 
vent nor the mouth. It is, in fact, both one 
and the other. The orifice performs a double 
function. The entire creature is cold. 

The jelly-fish of the Mediterranean is repul- 
sive. Contact with that animated gelatinous 
substance, which envelopes the bather, in which 
the hands sink in, and the nails scratch inef- 
fectively ; which can be torn without killing 
it, and which can be plucked off without en- 
tirely removing it — that fluid and yet tenacious 
creature, which slips through the fingers, is 
disgusting; but no horror can equal the sud- 
den apparition of the devil-fish, that Medusa 
with its eight serpents. 

No grasp can equal the sudden strain of the 
cephaloptera. 

It is with the sucking apparatus that it at- 
tacks. The victim is oppressed by a vacuum 
drawing at numberless points: it is not a claw- 
ing or a biting, but an indescribable scarifica- 
tion. A tearing of the flesh is terrible, but less 
terrible than a sucking of the blood. Claws 
are harmless compared with the horrible action 
of these natural air-cups. The talons of the 
wild beast enter into your flesh ; but with the 
cephaloptera it is you who enter into the crea- 
ture. The muscles swell, the fibres of the body 
are contorted, the skin cracks under the loath- 
some oppression, the blood spurts out and min- 
gles horribly with the lymph of the monster, 
which clings to its victim by innumerable hid- 
eous mouths. The hydra incorporates itself 
with the man ; the man becomes one with the 
hydra. The spectre lies upon you : the tiger 
can only devour you ; the devil-fish, horrible, 
6ucks your life-blood away. He draws you to 
him, and into himself; while bound down, 
glued to the ground, powerless, you fee2 your- 
self gradually emptied into this horrible pouch, 
which is the monster. 

These strange animals, Science, in accord- 
ance with its habit of excessive caution, even in 
the face of facts, at first rejects as fabulous; 
then she decides to observe them ; then she dis- 
sects, classifies, catalogues, and labels ; then 
procures specimens, and exhibits them in glass 
cases in museums. They enter then into her 
nomenclature; are designated mollusks, inver- 
tebrata, radiata : she determines their position 
in the animal world a little above the calama- 
ries, a little below the cuttle-fish ; she finds for 
these hydras of the sea an analogous creature 
in fresh water called the argyronecte ; she di- 


vides them into great, medium, and small 
kinds ; she admits more readily the existence 
of the small than of the large species, which is, 
however, the tendency of science in all coun- 
tries, for she is by nature more microscopic 
than telescopic. She regards them from the 
point of view of their construction, and calls 
them Cephaloptera; counts their antennae, and 
calls them Octopedes. This done, she leaves 
them. Where science drops them, philosophy 
takes them up. 

Philosophy, in her turn, studies these crea- 
tures. She goes both less far and further. 
She does not dissect, but meditate. Where the 
scalpel has laboured, she plunges the hypothesis. 
She seeks the final cause. Eternal perplexity 
of the thinker. These creatures disturb his 
ideas of the Creator. They are hideous sur- 
prises. They are the death’s-head at the feast 
of contemplation. The philosopher determines 
their characteristics in dread. They are the 
concrete forms of evil. What attitude can he 
take towards this treason of creation against 
herself? To whom can he look for the solution 
of these riddles? The Possible is a terrible 
matrix. Monsters are mysteries in their con- 
crete form. Portions of shade issue from the 
mass, and something within detaches itself, rolls, 
floats, condenses, borrows elements from the 
ambient darkness, becomes subject to unknown 
polarizations, assumes a kind of life, furnishes 
itself with some unimagined form from the ob- 
scurity, and with some terrible spirit from the 
miasma, and wanders ghostlike among living 
things. It is as if night itself assumed the forms 
of animals. But for what good? with what 
object? Thus we come again to the eternal 
questioning. 

These animals are indeed phantoms as much 
as monsters. They are proved and improbable. 
Their fate is to exist in spite of a priori rea- 
sonings. They are the amphibia of the shore 
which separates life from death. Their un- 
reality makes their existence puzzling. They 
touch the frontier of man’s domain and people 
the region of chimeras. We deny the possibil- 
ity of the vampyre, and the cephaloptera ap> 
pears. Their swarming is a certainty which 
disconcerts our confidence. Optimism, which 
is nevertheless in the right, becomes silenced in 
their presence. They form the visible extrem- 
ity of the dark circles. They mark the tran- 
sition of our reality into another. They seem 
to belong to that commencement of terrible life 
which the dreamer sees confusedly through the 
loophole of the night. 

That multiplication of monsters, first in the 
Invisible, then in the Possible, has been sus- 
pected, perhaps perceived by magi and philos- 
ophers in their austere ecstasies and profound 
contemplations. Hence the conjecture of a 
material hell. The demon is simply the in- 
visible tiger. The wild beast which devours 
souls has been presented to the eyes of human 
beings by St. John, and bv Dante in his vision 
of Hell. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


125 


If, in truth, the invisible circles of creation 
continue indefinitely, if after one there is yet 
another, and so forth in illimitable progression ; 
if that chain, which for our part we are re- 
solved to doubt, really exist, the cephaloptera 
at one extremity proves Satan at the other. It 
is certain that the wrong-doer at one end proves 
the existence of wrong at the other. 

Every malignant creature, like every pervert- 
ed intelligence, is a sphinx. A terrible sphinx 
propounding a terrible riddle — the riddle of the 
existence of Evil. 

It is this perfection of evil which has some- 
times sufficed to incline powerful intellects to a 
faith in the duality of the Deity, towards that 
terrible bifrons of the Manichasans. 

A piece of silk stolen during the last war 
from the palace of the Emperor of China rep- 
resents a shark eating a crocodile, who is eating 
a serpent, who is devouring an eagle, who is 
preying on a swallow, who in his turn is eating 
a caterpillar. 

All nature which is under our observation is 
thus alternately devouring and devoured. The 
prey prey on each other. 

Learned men, however, who arc also philos- 
ophers, and therefore optimists in their view of 
creation, find, or believe they find, an explana- 
tion. Among others, Bonnet of Geneva, that 
mysterious exact thinker, who was opposed to 
Buffon, as in later times Geoffroy St. Hilaire 
has been to Cuvier, was struck with the idea of 
the final object. His notions may be summed 
up thus : universal death necessitates universal 
sepulture ; the devourers are the sextons of the 
system of nature. All created things enter into 
and form the elements of other. To decay is 
to nourish. Such is the terrible law from which 
not even man himself escapes. 

In our world of twilight this fatal order of 
things produces monsters. You ask for what 
purpose. We find the solution here. 

But is this the solution? Is this the answer 
to our questionings ? And if so, why not some 
different order of things? Thus the question 
returns. 

Let us live : be it so. 

But let us endeavour that death shall be 
progress. Let us aspire to an existence in which 
these mysteries shall be made clear. Let us 
follow that conscience which leads us thither. 

For let us never forget that the highest is 
only attained through the high. 


III. 

ANOTHER KIND OF SEA-COMBAT. 

Such was the creature in whose power Gil- 
iiatt had fallen for some minutes. 

The monster was the inhabitant of the grotto 
-—the terrible genii of the place. A kind of 
sombre demon of the water. 

All the splendours of the cavern existed for 
it alone.. 


On the day of the previous month when Gi\- 
liatt had first penetrated into the grotto, the 
dark outline, vaguely perceived by him in the 
ripples of the secret waters, was this monster. 
It was here in its home. 

When, entering for the second time into tho 
cavern in pursuit of the crab, he had observed 
the crevice in which he supposed that the crab 
had taken refuge, the jneuvre was there lying in 
wait for prey. 

Is it possible to imagine that secret ambush ? 

No bird would brood, no egg would burst to 
life, no flower would dare to open, no breast to 
give milk, no heart to love, no spirit to soar, 
under the influence of that apparition of evil 
watching with sinister patience in the dusk. 

Gilliatt had thrust his arm deep into the open 
ing; the monster had snapped at it. It held 
him fast, as the spider holds the fly. 

He was in the water up to his belt ; his naked 
feet clutching the slippery roundness of the huge 
stones at the bottom ; his right arm bound and 
rendered powerless by the flat coils of the long 
tentacles of the creature, and his body almost 
hidden under the folds and cross folds of this 
horrible bandage. 

Of the eight arms of the devil-fish, three ad- 
hered to the rock, while five encircled Gilliatt.. 
In this way, clinging to the granite on the one 
hand, and on the other to its human prey, it 
enchained him to the rock. Two hundred and 
fifty suckers were upon him, tormenting him 
with agony and loathing. He was grasped by 
gigantic hands, the fingers of which were each 
nearly a yard long, and furnished inside with 
living blisters eating into the flesh. 

As we have said, it is impossible to tear one’s 
self from the folds of the devil-fish. The at- 
tempt ends only in a firmer grasp. The mon- 
ster clings with more determined force. Its 
effort increases with that of his victim ; every 
struggle produces a tightening of his ligatures. 

Gilliatt had but one resource, his knife. 

His left hand only was free, but the reader 
knows with what power he could use it. It 
might have been said that he had two right 
hands. 

His open knife was in this hand. 

The antenna of the devil-fish cannot be cut ; 
it is a leathery substance, impossible to divide 
with the knife ; it slips under the edge ; its po- 
sition in attack also is such, that to cut it would 
be to wound the victim’s own flesh. 

The creature is formidable, but there is a 
way of resisting it. The fishermen of Sark 
know this, as does any one who has seen them 
execute certain abrupt movements in the sea. 
The porpoises know it also ; they have a way 
of biting the cuttle-fish which decapitates it. 
Hence the frequent sight on the sea of pen-fish, 
poulps, and cuttle-fish without heads. 

The cephaloptera, in fact, is only vulnerable 
through the head. 

Gilliatt was not ignorant of this fact. 

He had never seen a devil-fish of this size. 
His first encounter was with one of the larger 


126 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


species. Another would have been powerless 
with terror. 

With the devil-fish, as with a furious bull, 
there is a certain moment in the conflict which 
must be seized. It is the instant when the bull 
lowers the neck ; it is the instant when the 
devil-fish advances its head. The movement 
is rapid. He who loses that moment is de- 
stroyed. 

The tilings we have described occupied only 
a few moments. Gilliatt, however, felt the in- 
creasing power of its innumerable suckers. 

The monster is cunning ; it tries first to stu- 
pefy its prey. It seizes, and then pauses awhile. 

Gilliatt grasped his knife; the sucking in- 
creased. 

He looked at the monster, which seemed to 
look at him. 

Suddenly it loosened from the rock its sixth 
antenna, and, darting it at him, seized him by 
the left arm. 

At the same moment it advanced its head 
with a violent movement. In one second more 
its mouth would have fastened on his breast. 
Bleeding in the sides, and with his two arms 
entangled, he would have been a dead man. 

But Gilliatt was watchful. He avoided the 
antenna, and at the moment when the monster 
darted forward to fasten on his breast, he struck 
it with the knife clenched in his left hand. 
There were two convulsions in opposite direc- 
tions — that of the devil-fish and that of its prey. 
The movement was rapid as a double flash of 
lightning. 

He had plunged the blade of his knife into 
the flat, slimy substance, and by a rapid move- 
ment, like the flourish of a whip in the air, 
describing a circle round the two eyes, he 
wrenched the head off as a man would draw a 
tooth. 

The struggle was ended. The folds relaxed. 
The monster dropped away, like the slow de- 
taching of hands. The four hundred suckers, 
deprived of their sustaining power, dropped at 
once from the man and the rock. The mass 
sank to the bottom of the water. 

Breathless with the struggle, Gilliatt could 
perceive upon the stones at his feet two shape- 
less, slimy heaps, the head on one side, the re- 
mainder of the monster on the other. 

Fearing, nevertheless, some convulsive re- 
turn of his agony, he recoiled to avoid the reach 
of the dreaded tentacles. 

But the monster was quite dead. 

Gilliatt closed his knife. 


IV. 

NOTHING IS HIDDEN, NOTHING LOST. 

It was time that he killed the devil-fish. He 
was almost suffocated. His right arm and his 
chest were purple. Numberless little swellings 
were distinguishable upon them ; the blood flow- 
ed from them here and there. The remedy for 


these wounds is sea-water. Gilliatt plunged 
into it, rubbing himself at the same time with 
the palms of his hands. The swellings disap- 
peared under the friction. 

By stepping further into the waters, he had, 
without perceiving it, approached to the species 
of recess already observed by him near the crev- 
ice where he had been attacked by the devil-fish. 

This recess stretched obliquely under the great 
walls of the cavern, and was dry. The large 
pebbles which had become heaped up there had 
raised the bottom above the level of ordinary 
tides. The entrance was a rather large, ellip- 
tical arch ; a man could enter by stooping. The 
green light of the submarine grotto penetrated 
into it, and lighted it feebly. 

It happened that, while hastily rubbing his 
skin, Gilliatt raised his eyes mechanically. 

He was able to see far into the cavern. 

He shuddered. 

He fancied that he perceived, in the furthest 
depth of the dusky recess, something smiling. 

Gilliatt had never heard the word “halluci- 
nation,” but he was familiar with the idea. 
Those mysterious encounters with the invisible, 
which, for the sake of avoiding the difficulty of 
explaining them, we call hallucinations, are in 
nature. Illusions or realities, visions are a fact. 
He who has the gift will see them. Gilliatt, as 
we have said, was a dreamer. He had, at times, 
the faculty of a seer. It was not in vain that 
he had spent his days in musing among solita- 
ry places. 

He imagined himself the dupe of one of those 
mirages which he had more than once beheld 
when in his dreamy moods. 

The opening was somewhat in the shape of a 
chalk-burner’s oven. It was a low niche, with 
projections like basket - handles. Its abrupt 
groins contracted gradually as far as the ex- 
tremity of the crypt, where the heaps of round 
stones and the rocky roof joined. 

Gilliatt entered, and, lowering his head, ad- 
vanced towards the object in the distance. 

There was, indeed, something smiling. 

It was a death’s head ; but it was not only the 
head. There was the entire skeleton. A com- 
plete human skeleton was lying in the cavern. 

In such a position, a bold man will continue 
his researches. 

Gilliatt cast his eyes around. He was sur- 
rounded by a multitude of crabs. The multi- 
tude did not stir. They were but empty shells. 

These groups were scattered here and there 
among the masses of pebbles, in irregular con- 
stellations. 

Gilliatt, having his eyes fixed elsewhere, had 
walked among them without perceiving them. 

At the extremity of the crypt, where he had 
now penetrated, there was a still greater heap 
of remains. It was a confused mass of legs, 
antennae, and mandibles. Claws stood wide 
open ; bony shells lay still under their bristling 
prickles : some reversed showed their livid hol- 
lows. The heap was like a melee of besiegers 
who had fallen, and lay massed together. 



THE FIGHT WITH THE DEVIL-FISH. 






/ 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


127 


The skeleton was partly buried in this heap. 

Under the confused mass of scales and ten- 
tacles, the eye perceived the cranium with its 
furrows, the vertebra, the thigh bones, the tibias, 
and the long -jointed finger -bones with their 
nails. The frame of the ribs was filled with 
crabs. Some heart had once beat there. The 
green mould of the sea had settled round the 
sockets of the eyes. Limpets had left their 
slime upon the bony nostrils. For the rest, 
there were not in this cave within the rocks 
either sea-gulls, or weeds, or a breath of air. 
All was still. The teeth grinned. 


The sombre side of laughter is that strange^ caused the lid to fly up. 


He felt it, and found a hard substance within, 
apparently of square form. It was useless to 
endeavour to unfasten the buckle, so he cut the 
leather with his knife. 

The girdle contained a little iron box and 
some pieces of gold. Gilliatt counted twenty 
guineas. 

The iron box was an old sailor’s tobacco-box, 
opening and shutting with a spring. It was 
very tight and rusty. The spring, being com- 
pletely oxidized, would not work. 

Once more the knife served Gilliatt in a diffi- 
culty. A pressure with the point of the blade 


C mockery of its expression which is peculiar to 
a human skull. 

This marvellous palace of the deep, inlaid 
and incrusted with all the gems of the sea, had 
at length revealed and told its secret. It was 
a savage haunt ; the devil-fish inhabited it ; it 
was also a tomb, in which the body of a man 
reposed. 

The skeleton and the creatures around it 
oscillated vaguely in the reflections of the sub- 
terranean water which trembled upon the roof 
and wall. The horrible multitude of crabs 
looked as if finishing their repast. These Crus- 
tacea seemed to be devouring the carcass. 
Nothing could be more strange than the aspect 
of the dead vermin upon their dead prey. 

Gilliatt had beneath his eyes the storehouse 
of the devil-fish. 

It was a dismal sight. The crabs had de- 
voured the man, the devil-fish had devoured 
the crabs. 

There were no remains of clothing anywhere 
visible. The man must have been seized naked. 

Gilliatt, attentively examining, began to re- 
move the shells from the skeleton. What had 
this man been ? The body was admirably dis- 
sected ; it looked as if prepared for the study of 
its anatomy ; all the flesh was stripped ; not a 
muscle remained ; not a bone was missing. If 
Gilliatt had been learned in science, he might 
have demonstrated the fact. The periostea, de- 
nuded of their covering, were white and smooth, 
as if they had been polished. But for some 
green mould of sea-mosses here and there, they 
would have been like ivory. The cartilaginous 
divisions were delicately inlaid and arranged. 
The tomb sometimes produces this dismal mo- 
saic work. 

The body was, as it were, interred under the 
heap of dead crabs. Gilliatt disinterred it. 

Suddenly he stooped, and examined more 
closely. 

He had perceived around the vertebral column 
a sort of belt. 

It was a leathern girdle, which had evidently 
' been worn buckled upon the waist of the man 
when alive. 

The leather was moist, the buckle rusty. 
Gilliatt pulled the girdle ; the vertebra of 
the skeleton resisted, and he was compelled to 
break through them in order to remove it. A 
crust of small shells had begun to form upon it. 


The box was open. 

There was nothing inside but pieces of paper. 

A little roll of very thin sheets, folded in four, 
were fitted in the bottom of the box. They were 
damp, but not injured. The box, hermetically 
sealed, had preserved them. Gilliatt unfolded 
them. 

They were three bank-notes of one thousand 
pounds sterling each, making together seventy- 
five thousand francs. 

Gilliatt folded them again, replaced them in 
the box, taking advantage of the space which 
remained to add the twenty guineas ; and then 
reclosed the box as well as he could. 

Next he examined the girdle. 

The leather, which had originally been polish- 
ed outside, was rough within. Upon this taw- 
ny ground some letters had been traced in black 
thick ink. Gilliatt deciphered them, and read 
the words “Sieur Clubin.” 


V. 

THE FATAL DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SIX INCHES 
AND TWO FEET. 

Gilliatt replaced the box in the girdle, and 
placed the girdle in the pocket of his trowsers. 

He left the skeleton among the crabs, with 
the remains of the devil-fish beside it. 

While he had been occupied with the devil- 
fish and the skeleton, the rising tide had sub- 
merged the entrance to the cave. He was only 
enabled to leave it by plunging under the arch- 
ed entrance. He got through without difficul- 
ty, for he knew the entrance well, and was mas- 
ter of these gymnastics in the sea. 

It is easy to understand the drama which had 
taken place there during the ten weeks preced- 
ing. One monster had preyed upon another; 
the devil-fish had seized Clubin. 

These two embodiments of treachery had met 
in the inexorable darkness. There had been 
an encounter at the bottom of the sea between 
these two compounds of mystery and watchful- 
ness ; the monster had destroyed the man — a 
horrible fulfilment of justice. 

The crab feeds on carrion, the devil-fish on 
crabs. The devil-fish seizes as it passes any 
swimming animal — an otter, a dog, a man if it 
can — sucks the blood, and leaves the body at 


128 


THE TOILEKS OF THE SEA. 


the bottom of the water. The crabs are the 
spider-formed scavengers of the sea. Putrefying 
flesh attracts them ; they crowd round it, de- 
vour the body, and are in their turn consumed 
by the devil-flsh. Dead creatures disappear in 
the crab, the crab disappears in the pieuvre. 
This is the law which we have already pointed 
out. 

The devil-flsh had laid hold of him, and 
drowned him. Some wave had carried his 
body into the cave, and deposited it at the ex- 
tremity of the inner cavern, where Gilliatt had 
discovered it. 

He returned searching among the rocks for 
sea-urchins and limpets. He had no desire for 
crabs; to have eaten them now would have 
seemed to him like feeding upon human flesh. 

For the rest, he thought of nothing but of eat- 
ing what he could before starting. Nothing now 
interposed to prevent his departure. Great tem- 
pests are always followed by a calm, which lasts 
sometimes several days. There was, therefore, 
no danger from the sea. Gilliatt had resolved 
to leave the rocks on the following day. It was 
important, on account of the tide, to keep the 
barrier between the two Douvres during the 
night, but he intended to remove it at daybreak, 
to push the sloop out to sea, and set sail for St. 
Sampson. The light breeze which was blowing 
came from the south-west, which was precisely 
the wind which he would tvant. 

It was in the first quarter of the moon, in the 
month of May ; the days were long. 

When Gilliatt, having finished his wander- 
ings among the rocks, and appeased his appetite 
to some extent, returned to the passage between 
the two Douvres, where he had left the sloop, 
the sun had set, the twilight -was increased by 
that pale light which comes from a crescent 
moon ; the tide had attained its height, and was 
beginning to ebb. The funnel, standing upright 
above the sloop, had been covered by the foam 
during the tempest with a coating of salt which 
glittered white in the light of the moon. 

This circumstance reminded Gilliatt that the 
storm had inundated the sloop both with surf 
and rain-water, and that, if he meant to start in 
the morning, it would be necessary to bale it out. 

Before leaving to go in quest of crabs, he had 
ascertained that it had about six inches of water 
in the hold. The scoop which he used for the 
purpose would, he thought, be sufficient for 
throwing the water overboard. 

On arriving at the barrier, Gilliatt was struck 
with terror. There were nearly two feet of wa- 
ter in the sloop. A terrible discovery — the bark 
had sprung a leak. 

She had been making water gradually during 
his absence. Burdened as she was, two feet of 
w'ater was a perilous addition. A little more, 
and she must inevitably founder. If he had re- 
turned but an hour later, he would probably 
have found nothing above water but the funnel 
and the mast. 

There was not a minute to be lost in deliber- 
ation. It was absolutely necessary to find the 


leakage, stop it, and then empty the vessel, or, 
at all events, lighten it. The pumps of the 
Durande had been lost in the break-up of the 
wreck. He was reduced to use the scoop of the 
bark. 

To find the leak was the most urgent neces- 
sity. 

Gilliatt set to work immediately, and 'without 
even giving himself time to dress. He shiver- 
ed, but he no longer felt either hunger or cold. 

The water continued to gain upon his vessel. 
Fortunately, there was no wind. The slightest 
swell would have been fatal. 

The moon went down. 

Bent low, and plunged in the water deeper 
than his waist, he groped about for a long time. 
He discovered the mischief at last. 

During the gale, at the critical moment when 
the sloop had swerved, the strong bark had 
bumped and grazed rather violently on the rocks. 
One of the projections of the Little Douvre had 
made a fracture in the starboard side of the 
hull. 

The leak unluckily — it might almost have 
been said, maliciously — had been made near the 
joint of the two riders, a fact which, joined with 
the fury of the hurricane, had prevented him per- 
ceiving it during his dark and rapid survey in 
the height of the storm. 

The fracture was alarming on account of its 
size ; but fortunately, although the vessel was 
sunk lower than usual by the weight of water, 
it was still above the ordinary water-line. 

At the moment when the accident had oc- 
curred, the waves had rolled heavily into the 
defile, and had flooded through the breach, and 
the vessel had sunk a few inches under the ad- 
ditional weight ; so that, even after the subsi- 
dence of the water, the weight, having raised the 
water-line, had kept the hole still under the sur- 
face. Hence the imminence of the danger. 
But if he could succeed in stopping the leak, he 
could empty the sloop ; the hole once staunch- 
ed, the vessel would rise to its usual water-line, 
the fracture would be above water, and in this 
position the repair •would be easy, or at least pos- 
sible. He had still, as we have already said, 
his carpenters’ tools in good condition. 

But, meanwhile, what uncertainty must he 
not endure! What perils, what chances of ac- 
cidents ! He heard the water rising inexora- 
bly. One shock, and all would have perished. 
What misery seemed in store for him. Perhaps 
his endeavours were even now' too late. 

He reproached himself bitterly. He thought 
that he ought to have seen the damage immedi- 
ately. The six inches of water in the hold 
ought to have suggested it to him. He had 
been stupid enough to attribute these six inches 
of water to the rain and the foam. He was an- 
gry with himself for having slept and eaten ; 
he taxed himself even with his w r eariness, and 
almost with the storm and the dark night. All 
seemed to him to have been his own fault. 

These bitter self-reproaches filled his mind 
while engaged in his labour, but they did not 


129 


THE TOILERS 

prevent his considering well the work he was 
engaged in. 

The leak had been found — that was the first 
step : to staunch it was the second. That was 
all that was possible for the moment. Joinery 
work cannot be carried on under water. 

It was a favourable circumstance that the 
breach in the hull was in the space between the 
two chains which held the funnel fast on the 
starboard side. The stuffing with which it was 
necessary to stop it could be fixed to these 
chains. 

The water, meanwhile, was gaining. Its 
depth was now between two and three feet, and 
it reached above his knees. 


VI. 

DE PROFUNDI S AD ALTUM. 

Gilliatt had to his hand among his reserve 
of rigging for the sloop a pretty large tarpaulin, 
furnished with long lanyards at the four corners. 

He took this tarpaulin, made fast the two 
corners by the lanyards to the two rings of the 
chains of the funnel on the same side as the 
leak, and threw it over the gunwale. The tar- 
paulin hung like a sheet between the Little 
Douvre and the bark, and sunk in the water. 
The pressure of the water endeavouring to en- 
ter into the hold, kept it close to the hull upon 
the gap. The heavier the pressure, the closer 
the sail adhered. It was stuck by the water it- 
self right upon the fracture. The wound of the 
bark was staunched. 

The tarred canvas formed an effectual barrier 
between the interior of the hold and the waves 
without. Not a drop of water entered. The 
leak was masked, but was not stopped. It was 
a respite only. 

Gilliatt took the scoop and began to bale the 
sloop. It was time that she were lightened. 
The labour warmed him a little, but his weari- 
ness was extreme. He was forced to acknowl- 
edge to himself that he could not complete the 
work of staunching the hold. He had scarcely 
eaten anything, and he had the humiliation of 
feeling himself exhausted. 

He measured the progress of his work by the 
sinking of the level of water below his knees. 
The fall was slow. 

Moreover, the leakage was only interrupted ; 
the evil was moderated, not repaired. The tar- 
paulin pushed into the gap began to bulge in- 
side, looking as if a fist were under the canvas 
endeavouring to force it through. The canvas, 
strong and pitchy, resisted ; but the swelling 
and the tension increased ; it was not certain 
that it would not give way, and at any moment 
the swelling might become a rent. The irrup- 
tion of water must then recommence. 

In such a case, as the crews of vessels in dis- 
tress know well, there is no other remedy than 
stuffing. The sailors take rags of every kind 
which they can find at hand — everything, in fact, 


OF THE SEA. 

which in their language is called “service,” and 
with this they push the bulging sailcloth as far 
as they can into the leak. 

Of this “ service” Gilliatt had none. All the 
rags and tow which he had stored up had been 
used in his operations, or carried away by the 
storm. 

If necessary, he might possibly have been 
able to find some remains by searching among 
the rocks. The sloop was sufficiently lightened 
for him to leave it with safety for a quarter of 
an hour ; but how could he make this search 
without a light ? The darkness was complete. 
There was no longer any moon — nothing but 
the starry sky. He had no dry tow with which 
to make a match, no tallow to make a candle, 
no fire to light one, no lantern to shelter it from 
the wind. In the sloop and among the rocks 
all was confused and indistinct. He could hear 
the water lapping against the wounded hull, but 
he could not even see the crack. It was with 
his hands that he had ascertained the bulging 
of the tarpaulin. In that darkness it was im 
possible to make any useful search for rags ot 
canvas or pieces of tow scattered among tht 
breakers. Who could glean these waifs and 
strays without being able to see his path ? Gil- 
liatt looked sorrowfully at the sky; all those 
stars, he thought, and yet no light ! 

The water in the bark having diminished, 
the pressure from without increased. The 
bulging of the canvas became larger, and was 
still increasing, like a frightful abscess ready to 
burst. The situation, which had been improved 
for a short time, began to be threatening. 

Some means of stopping it effectually was 
absolutely necessary. He had nothing left but 
his clothes, which he had stretched to dry upon 
the projecting rocks of the Little Douvre. 

He hastened to fetch them, and placed them 
upon the gunwale of the sloop. 

Then he took his tarpaulin overcoat, and, 
kneeling in the water, thrust it into the crevice, 
and pushing the swelling of the sail outward, 
emptied it of water. To the tarpaulin coat he 
added the sheepskin, then his Guernsey shirt, 
and then his jacket. The hole received them 
all. He had nothing left but his sailor’s trow- 
sers, which he took off and pushed in with the 
other articles. This enlarged and strengthened 
the stuffing. The stopper was made, and it 
appeared to be sufficient. 

These clothes passed partly through the gap, 
the sail-cloth outside enveloping them. The* 
sea, making an effort to enter, pressed against 
the obstacle, spread it over the gap, and blocked 
it. It was a sort of exterior compression. 

Inside, the centre only of the bulging having 
been driven out, there remained all around the 
gap, and the stuffing just thrust through, a sort 
of circular pad formed by the tarpaulin, which 
was rendered still firmer by the irregularities 
of the fracture with which it had become en- 
tangled. 

The leak was staunched, but nothing could 
be more precarious. Those sharp splinters of 


130 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


the gap which fixed the tarpaulin might pierce 
it and make holes, by which the water would 
enter, while he would not even perceive it in 
the darkness. There was little probability of 
the stoppage lasting until daylight. Gilliatt’s 
anxiety changed its form ; but he felt it in- 
creasing at the same time that he found his 
strength leaving him. 

He had again set to work to bale out the 
hold, but his arms, in spite of all his efforts, 
could scarcely lift a scoopful of water. He 
was naked and shivering. He felt as if the 
end were now at hand. 

One possible chance flashed across his mind. 
There might be a sail in sight. A fishing-boat 
which should by any accident be in the neigh- 
bourhood of the Douvres might come to his 
assistance. The moment had arrived when a 
helpmate was absolutely necessary. With a 
man and a lantern all might yet be saved. 
If there were two persons, one might easily 
bale the vessel. Since the leak was temporari- 
ly staunched, as soon as she could be relieved 
of this burden she would rise, and regain her 
ordinary water-line. The leak would then be 
above the surface of the water, the repairs would 
be practicable, and he would be able immediate- 
ly to replace the stuff by a piece of planking, 
and thus substitute for the temporary stoppage 
a complete repair. If not, it would be necessary 
to wait till daylight — to wait the whole night 
long ; a delay which might prove ruinous. 
If by chance some ship’s lantern should be 
in sight, Gilliatt would be able to signal it 
from the height of the Great Douvre. The 
weather was calm ; there was no wind or sea ; 
there was a possibility of the figure of a man 
being observed moving against the background 
of the starry sky. A captain of a ship, or 
even the master of a fishing-boat, would not 
be at night in the ■waters of the Douvres with- 
out directing his glass upon the rock, by way 
of precaution. 

Gilliatt hoped that some one might perceive 
him. 

He climbed upon the wreck, grasped the 
knotted rope, and mounted upon the Great 
Douvre. 

Not a sail was visible around the horizon ; 
not a boat’s lantern. The wide expanse, as far 
as eye could reach, was a desert. No assist- 
ance was possible, and no resistance possible. 

Gilliatt felt himself without resources — a 
feeling which he had not felt until then. 

A dark fatality was now his master. With 
all his labour, all his success, all his courage, 
he and his bark, and its precious burden, were 
about to become the sport of the waves. He 
had no other means of continuing the struggle ; 
he became listless. How could he prevent the 
tide from returning, the water from rising, the 
night from continuing? The temporary stop- 
page which he had made was his sole reliance. 
He had exhausted and stripped himself in con- 
structing and completing it ; he could neither 
fortify nor add to it. The stop-gap was such 


that it must remain as it was, and every further 
effort was useless. The apparatus, hastily con- 
structed, was at the mercy of the waves. How 
would this inert obstacle work? It was this 
obstacle now, not Gilliatt, which had to sustain 
the combat — that handful of rags, not that in- 
telligence. The swell of a wave w’ould suffice 
to reopen the fracture. More or less of pres- 
sure ; the whole question was comprised in that 
formula. 

All depended upon a brute struggle between 
two mechanical quantities. Henceforth he 
could neither aid his auxiliary nor stop his en- 
emy. He was no longer any other than a 
mere spectator of this struggle, which was one 
for him of life or death. He who had ruled 
over it, a supreme intelligence, was at the last 
moment compelled to resign all to a mere 
blind resistance. 

No trial, no terror that he had yet under- 
gone, could bear comparison with this. 

From the time when he had taken up his 
abode upon the Douvres, he had found himself 
surrounded, and, as it were, possessed by soli- 
tude. This solitude more than surrounded, it 
enveloped him. A thousand menaces at once 
had met him face to face. The wind was al- 
ways there, ready to become furious ; the sea, 
ready to roar. There was no stopping that terri- 
ble mouth, the wind — no imprisoning that dread 
monster, the sea. And yet he had striven — he, 
a solitary man, had combated hand to hand 
with the ocean, had wrestled even with the 
tempest. 

Many other anxieties, many other necessities 
had he made head against. There was no form 
of distress with which he had not become famil- 
iar. He had been compelled to execute great 
works without tools, to move vast burdens Avith- 
out aid ; Avithout science, to resolve problems ; 
without^proA r isions, to find food ; Avithout bed or 
roof tcrcover it, to find shelter and sleep. 

Upon that solitary rock he had been subjected 
by turns to all the varied and cruel tortures of 
nature ; oftentimes a gentle mother, not less 
often a pitiless destroyer. 

He had conquered his isolation, conquered 
hunger, conquered thirst, conquered cold, con- 
quered fever, conquered labour, conquered sleep. 
He had encountered a mighty coalition of ob- 
stacles formed to bar his progress. After his 
privations, there were the elements; after the 
sea, the tempest ; after the tempest, the devil- 
fish ; after the monster, the spectre. 

A dismal irony was then the end of all. 
Upon this rock, Avhence he had thought to arise 
triumphant, the spectre of Clubin had arisen to 
mock him Avitli a hideous smile. 

The grin of the spectre was well founded. 
Gilliatt saAv himself ruined — saw himself no 
less than Clubin in the grasp of death. 

The winter, famine, fatigue, the dismember- 
ment of the Avreck, the removal of the machin- 
ery, the equinoctial gale, the thunder, the mon- 
ster, Avere all as nothing compared with this 
small fracture in a vessel’s planks. Against the 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


131 


cold one could procure — and he had procured 
— fire; against hunger, the shell-fish of the 
rocks ; against thirst, the rain ; against the dif- 
ficulties of his great task, industry and energy ; 
against the sea and the storm, the breakwater ; 
against the devil-fish, the knife ; but against the 
terrible leak he had no weapon. 

The hurricane had bequeathed him this sinis- 
ter farewell. The last struggle, the traitorous 
thrust, the treacherous side-blow of the vanquish- 
ed foe. In its flight the tempest had turned and 
shot this arrow in the rear. It was the final and 
deadly stab of his antagonist. 

It was possible to combat with the tempest, 
but how could he struggle with that insidious 
enemy who now attacked him ? 

If the stoppage gave way, if the leak reopened, 
nothing could prevent the sloop foundering. It 
would be the bursting of the ligature of the ar- 
tery ; and once under the water with its heavy 
burden, no power could raise it. The noble 
struggle, with two months’ Titanic labour, end- 
ed then in annihilation. To recommence would 
be impossible. He had neither forge nor ma 
terials. At daylight, in all probability, he was 
about to see all his work sink slowly and irre- 
coverably into the gulf. Terrible to feel that 
sombre power beneath. The sea snatched his 
prize from his hands. 

With his bark engulfed, no fate awaited him 
but to perish of hunger and cold, like the poor 
shipwrecked sailor on “The Man” rock. 

During two long months the intelligences 
which hover invisibly over the world had been 
the spectators of these things — on one hand the 
wide expanse, the waves, the winds, the light- 
nings, the meteors ; on the other, a man. On 
one hand the sea, on the other a human mind ; 
on the one hand the infinite, on the other an 
atom. 

The battle had been fierce, and behold the 
abortive issue of those prodigies of valour. 

Thus did this heroism without parallel end in 
powerlessness ; thus ended in despair that for- 
midable struggle — that struggle of a nothing 
against all ; that Iliad against one. 

Gilliatt gazed wildly into space. 

He had no clothing. He stood naked in the 
midst of that immensity. 

Then, overwhelmed by the sense of that un- 
known infinity, like one bewildered by a strange 
persecution, confronting the shadows of night, 
in the presence of that impenetrable darkness, 
in the midst of the murmur of the waves, the 
swell, the foam, the breeze, under the clouds, 
under that vast diffusion of force, under that 
mysterious firmament of wings, of stars, of gulfs, 
having around him and beneath him the ocean, 
above him the constellations, under him the great 
unfathomable deep, he sank, gave up the strug- 
gle, lay down upon the rock, his face towards the 
stars, humbled, and, uplifting his joined hands 
towards the terrible depths, he cried aloud, 
“Have mercy!” 

Weighed down to earth by that immensity, 
he prayed. 


He was there alone, in that darkness upon 
the rock, in the midst of that sea, stricken down 
with exhaustion, like one smitten by lightning, 
naked like the gladiator in the circus, save that 
for circus he had the vast horizon ; instead of 
wild beasts, the shadows of darkness ; instead of 
the faces of the crowd, the eyes of the unknown ; 
instead of the Vestals, the stars ; instead of Cee-| 
sar, the All-powerful. 

His whole being seemed to dissolve in cold,* 
fatigue, powerlessness, prayer, and darkness, and 
his eyes closed. 


VII. 

THE APPEAL IS HEARD. 

Some hours passed. 

The sun rose in an unclouded sky. 

Its first ray shone upon a motionless form 
upon the Great Douvre. It was Gilliatt. 

He was still outstretched upon the rock. 

He was naked, cold, and stiff, but he did not 
shiver. His closed eyelids were wan. It would 
have been difficult for a beholder to say whether 
the form before him was a corpse. 

The sun seemed to look upon him. 

If he were not dead, he was already so near 
death that the slightest cold wind would have 
sufficed to extinguish life. 

The wind began to breathe, warm and ani- 
mating — the opening breath of May. 

Meanwhile the sun ascended in the deep blue 
sky ; its rays, less horizontal, flushed the sky. 
Its light became warmth. It enveloped the 
slumbering form. 

Gilliatt moved not. If he breathed, it was 
only that feeble respiration which could scarce- 
ly tarnish the surface of a mirror. 

The sun continued its ascent, its rays striking 
less and les£ obliquely upon the naked man. 
The gentle breeze, which had been merely tep- 
id, became hot. 

The rigid and naked body remained still 
without movement, but the skin seemed less 
livid. 

The sun, approaching the zenith, shone al- 
most perpendicularly upon the plateau of the 
Douvres. A flood of light descended from the 
heavens ; the vast reflection from the glassy sea 
increased its splendour : the rock itself imbibed 
the rays and warmed the sleeper. 

A sigh raised his breast. 

He lived. 

The sun continued its gentle offices. The 
wind, which was already the breath of summer 
and of noon, approached him like loving lips 
that breathed upon him softly. 

Gilliatt moved. 

The peaceful calm upon the sea tvas perfect. 
Its murmur was like the droning of the nurse 
beside the sleeping infant. The rock seemed 
cradled in the waves. 

The sea-birds, who knew that form, fluttered 
above it ; not with their old, wild astonishment, 


132 


/ 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


but with a sort of fraternal tenderness. They 
uttered plaintive cries — they seemed to be call- 
ing to him. A sea-mew, who no doubt knew 
him, was tame enough to come near him. It 
began to caw as if speaking to him. The sleep- 
er seemed not to hear. The bird hopped upon 
his shoulder, and pecked his lips softly. 

Gilliatt opened his eyes. 

The birds dispersed, chattering wildly. 

Gilliatt arose, stretched himself like a roused 
lion, ran to the edge of the platform, and looked 
down into the space between the two Douvres. 

The sloop was there, intact; the stoppage 
had held out ; the sea had probably disturbed 
it but little. 

All was saved. 

He was no longer weary. His powers had re- 
turned. His swoon had ended in a deep sleep. 

He descended and baled out the sloop, emp- 
tied the hold, raised the leakage above the wa- 


ter-line, dressed himself, ate, drank some wa- 
ter, and was joyful. 

The gap in the side of his vessel, examined in 
broad daylight, proved to require more labour 
than he had thought. It was a serious fracture. 
The entire day was too long for its repair. 

At daybreak on the morrow, after removing 
the barrier and reopening the entrance to the 
defile, dressed in the tattered clothing which 
had served to stop the leak, having about him 
Clubin’s girdle and the seventy-five thousand 
francs, standing erect in the sloop, now repair- 
ed, by the side of the machinery which he had 
rescued, with a favourable breeze and a good 
sea, Gilliatt pushed off from the Douvres. 

He put the sloop’s head for Guernsey. 

At the moment of his departure from the 
rocks, any one who had been there might have 
heard him singing in an undertone the air of 
“Bonny Dundee.” 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


133 


THIRD PART-DtiRUCHETTE. 


BOOK I. 

NIGHT AND THE MOON. 


I. 

THE HARBOUR CLOCK. 

The St. Sampson of the present day is almost 
a city ; the St. Sampson of forty years since was 
almost a village. 

When the winter evenings were ended, and 
spring had come, the inhabitants were not long 
out of bed after sundown. St. Sampson was 
an ancient parish which had long been accus- 
tomed to the sound of curfew-bell, and which 
had a traditional habit of blowing out the can- 
dle at an early hour. Folks there went to bed 
and rose with the day. Those old Norman vil- 
lagers are generally great rearers of poultry. 

The people of St. Sampson, except a few rich 
families among the townsfolk, are also a popu- 
lation of quarriers and carpenters. The port is 
a port of ship repairing. The quarrying of stone 
and the fashioning of timber goes on all day 
long ; here the labourer with the pickaxe, there 
the workman with the mallet. At night they 
sink with fatigue, and sleep like lead. Rude 
labours bring heavy slumbers. 

One evening, in the commencement of the 
month of May, after watching the crescent moon 
for some instants through the trees, and listen- 
ing to the step of Deruchette walking alone in 
the cool air in the garden of the Bravees, Mess 
Lethierry had returned to his room looking on 
the harbour, and had retired to rest ; Douce and 
Grace were already a-bed. Except Deruchette, 
the whole household were sleeping. Doors and 
shutters were everywhere closed. Footsteps 
were silent in the streets. Some few lights, 
like winking eyes about to close in rest, showed 
here and there in windows in the roofs, indi- 
cating the hour of domestics going to bed. Nine 
had already struck by the old Roman clock, sur- 
rounded by ivy, which shares with the church 
of 'St. Brelade at Jersey the peculiarity of hav- 
ing £or its day four ones (IIII), which are used 
to signify eleven hundred and eleven. 

The popularity of Mess Lethierry at St. Samp- 
son had been founded on his success. The 
success at an end, there had come a void. It 
might be imagined that ill fortune is contagious, 
and that the unsuccessful have a plague, so 
rapidly are they put in quarantine. The young 
men of well-to-do families avoided Deruchette. 
The isolation around the Bravees was so com- 


plete, that its inmates had not even yet heard 
the news of the great local event which had that 
day set all St. Sampson in a ferment. The rec- 
tor of the parish, the Rev. Ebenezer Caudray, 
had become rich. His uncle, the magnificent 
Dean of St. Asaph, had just died in London. 
The news had been brought by the mail sloop, 
the “Cashmere,” arrived from England that 
very morning, and the mast of which could be 
perceived in the roads of St. Peter’s Port. The 
“Cashmere” was to depart for Southampton at 
noon on the morrow, and, so the rumour ran, 
to convey the reverend gentleman, who had been 
suddenly summoned to England, to be present 
at the official opening of the will, not to speak 
of other urgent matters connected with an im- 
portant inheritance. All day long St. Samp- 
son had been conversing on this subject. The 
“ Cashmere,” the Rev. Ebenezer, his deceased 
uncle, his riches, his departure, his possible 
preferment in the future, had formed the found- 
ations of that perpetual buzzing. A solitary 
house, still uninformed on these matters, had 
remained at peace. This was the Brave'es. 

Mess Lethierry had jumped into his ham- 
mock, and lay down in his clothing. 

Since the catastrophe of the Durande, to get 
into his hammock had been his resource. Ev- 
ery captive has recourse to stretching himself 
upon his pallet, and Mess Lethierry was the 
captive of his grief. To go to bed was a truce, 
a gain in breathing-time, a suspension of ideas. 
He neither slept nor watched. Strictly speak- 
ing, for two months and a half — for so long was 
it since his misfortune — Mess Lethierry had 
been in a sort of somnambulism. He had not 
yet regained possession of his faculties. He 
was in that cloudy and confused condition of 
intellect with which those are familiar who have 
undergone overwhelming afflictions. His re- 
flections were not thought, his sleep was no re- 
pose. By day he was not awake, by night not 
asleep. He was up, and then gone to rest, that 
was all. When he was in his hammock forget- 
fulness came to him a little. He called that 
sleeping. Chimeras floated about him and 
within him. The nocturnal cloud, full of con- 
fused faces, traversed his brain. Sometimes it 
was the Emperor Napoleon dictating to him the 
story of his life ; sometimes there were several 
Deruchettes ; strange birds were in the trees ; 


134 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


the streets of Lons-le-Saulnier became serpents. 
Nightmares are the brief respites of despair. 
He passed his nights in dreaming, and his days 
in reverie. 

Sometimes he remained all the afternoon at 
the window of his room, which looked out upon 
the port, with his head drooping, his elbow’s on 
the -stone, his ears resting on his fists, his back 
turned to the whole world, his eye fixed on the 
old massive iron ring fastened in the wall of the 
house, at only a few feet from his w’indow, where 
in the old days he used to moor the Durande. 
He was looking at the rust which gathered on 
the ring. 

He was reduced to the mere mechanical habit 
of living. 

The bravest men, when deprived of their 
most cherished idea, will come to this. His 
life had become a void. Life is a voyage ; the 
idea is the itinerary. The plan of their course 
gone, they stop. The object is lost, the strength 
of purpose gone. Fate has a secret discretion- 
ary power. It is able to touch with its rod even 
our moral being. Despair is almost the desti- 
tution of the soul. Only the greatest minds re- 
sist, and for w r hat ? 

Mess Lethierry was always meditating, if ab- 
sorption can be called meditation, in the depth 
of a sort of cloudy abyss. Broken w'ords some- 
times escaped him like these: “There is noth- 
ing left for me now but to ask yonder for leave 
to go.” 

There was a certain contradiction in that 
nature, complex as the sea, of which Mess 
Lethierry was, so to speak, the product. Mess 
Lethierry’s grief did not seek relief in prayer. 

To be powerless is a certain strength. In 
the presence of our two great expressions of 
this blindness — destiny and nature — it is in his 
powerlessness that man has found his chief sup- 
port in prayer. 

Man seeks succour from his terror; his anx- 
iety bids him kneel. 

But Mess Lethierry prayed, not. 

In the time when he w r as happy, God existed 
for him almost in visible contact. Lethierry 
addressed Him, pledged his word to Him, seem- 
ed at times to hold familiar intercourse with 
Him. But in the hour of his misfortune — a phe- 
nomena not unfrequent — the idea of God had 
become eclipsed in his mind. This happens 
when the mind has created for itself a deity 
clothed with human qualities. 

In the state of mind in which he existed, 
there was for Lethierry only one clear vision — 
the smile of Deruchette. Beyond this all was 
dark. 

For some time, apparently on account of the 
loss of the Durande, and of the blow which it 
had been to them, this pleasant smile had been 
rare. She seemed always thoughtful. Her 
birdlike playfulness, his childlike ways were 
gone. She was never seen now in the morning, 
at the sound of the cannon which announced 
daybreak, saluting the rising sun with the 
“Boom! Daylight! Come in, please!” At 


times her expression w r as very serious, a sad 
thing for that sweet nature. She made an ef- 
fort, however, sometimes to laugh before Mess 
Lethierry and to divert him ; but her cheerful- 
ness grew tarnished from day to day — gathered 
dust like the wing of a butterfly with a pin 
through his body. Whether through sorrow for 
her uncle’s sorrow — for there are griefs which 
are the reflections of other griefs — or whether 
for any other reasons, she appeared at this time 
to be much inclined towards religion. In the 
time of the old rector, M. Jaquemin Herode, 
she scarcely went to church, as has been already 
said, four times a year. Now she was, on the 
contrary, assiduous in her attendance. She 
missed no service, neither of Sunday or of 
Thursday. Pious souls in the parish remarked 
W’ith satisfaction that amendment ; for it is a 
great blessing when a girl who runs so many 
dangers in the world turns her thoughts towards 
God. That enables the poor parents at least 
to be easy on the subject of love-making and 
what not. 

In the evening, whenever the w'eather permit- 
ted, she walked for an hour or two in the garden 
of the Brave'es. She w r as almost as pensive 
there as Mess Lethierry, and almost always 
alone. Deruchette went to bed last. This, 
however, did not prevent Douce and Grace 
watching her a little, by that instinct for spying 
which is common to servants ; spying is such a 
relaxation after household work. 

As to Mess Lethierry, in the abstracted state 
of his mind, these little changes in Deruchette’s 
habits escaped him. Moreover, his nature had 
little in common with the Duenna. He had 
not even remarked her regularity at the church. 
Tenacious of his prejudices against the clergy 
and their sermons, he wrould hav’e seen with lit- 
tle pleasure these frequent attendances at the 
parish church. It was not because his ow r n 
moral condition was not undergoing change. 
Sorrow is a cloud w hich changes form. 

Robust natures, as we have said, are some- 
times almost overthrown by sudden great mis- 
fortunes, but not quite. Manly characters 
such as Lethierry’s experience a reaction in a 
given time. Despair has its backward stages. 
From overwlielmment we rise to dejection ; 
from dejection to affliction ; from affliction to 
melancholy. Melancholy is a twilight state ; 
suffering melts into it and becomes a sombre 
joy. Melancholy is the pleasure of being sad. 

These elegiac moods were not made for Le- 
thierry. Neither the nature of his temperament 
nor the character of his misfortune suited those 
delicate shades. But at the moment at which 
w r e have returned to him, the reverie of his first 
despair had for more than a week been tending 
to disperse, without, however, leaving him less 
sad. He was moro inactive, was always dull, 
but he was no longer overwhelmed. A certain 
perception of events and circumstances was 
returning to him, an<3l he began to experience 
something of that phenomenon which may be 
called the return to reality. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


135 


Thus by day in the great lower room he did 
not listen to the words of those about him, but 
he heard them. • Grace came one morning quite 
triumphant to tell Deruchette that he had un- 
done the cover of a newspaper. 

This half acceptance of realities is in itself 
a good symptom, a token of convalescence. 
Great afflictions produce a stupor ; it is by such 
little acts that men return to themselves. This 
improvement, however, is at first only an aggra- 
vation of the evil. The dreamy condition of 
mind in which the sufferer has lived, has served, 
while it lasted, to blunt his grief. His sight be- 
fore was thick. He felt little. Now his view 
is clear, nothing escapes him, and his wounds 
reopen. Each detail that he perceives serves 
to remind him of his sorrow. He sees every- 
thing again in memory, every remembrance is 
a regret. All kinds of bitter aftertastes lurk in 
that return to life. He is better, and yet worse. 
Such was the condition of Lethierry. In re- 
turning to full* consciousness, his sufferings had 
become more distinct. 

A sudden shock first recalled him to a sense 
of reality. 

One afternoon, between the 15th and 20th of 
April, a double knock at the door of the great 
lower room of the Bravees had signalled the ar- 
rival of the postman. Douce had opened the 
door; there was a letter. 

The letter came from beyond sea; it was ad- 
dressed to Mess Lethierry, and bore the post- 
mark “Lisboa.” 

Douce had taken the letter to Mess Lethierry, 
who was in his room. He had taken it, placed 
it mechanically upon the table, and had not 
looked at it. 

The letter remained an entire week upon the 
table without being unsealed. 

It happened, however, one morning that 
Douce said to Mess Lethierry, 

“ Shall I brush the dust off your letter, sir?” 

Lethierry seemed to arouse from his lethargy : 

“Ay, ay! You are right,” he said; and lie 
opened the letter, and read as follows : 

“At Sea. 10 th March. 
“To Mess Lethierry, of St. Sampson : 

“ You will be gratified to receive news of me. 
I am aboard the ‘Tamaulipas,’ bound for the 
port of ‘Noreturn.’ Among the crew is a sail- 
or named Ahier-Tostevin, from Guernsey, who 
will return, and will have some facts to commu- 
nicate to you. I take the opportunity of our 
speaking a vessel, the ‘ Hernan Cortes,’ bound 
for Lisbon, to forward you this letter. 

“You will be astonished to learn that I am 
going to be honest. 

“As honest as Sieur Clubin. 

“I am bound to believe that you know of 
certain recent occurrences ; nevertheless, it is, 
perhaps, not altogether superfluous to send you 
a full account of them. 

“To proceed, then : 

“I have returned you your money. 

“ Some years ago, I borrowed from you, un- 


der somewhat irregular circumstances, the sum 
of fifty thousand francs. Before leaving St. 
Malo lately, I placed in the hands of your confi- 
dential man of business, Sieur Clubin, on your 
account, three bank-notes of one thousand pounds 
each, making together seventy -five thousand 
francs. You will, no doubt, find this reimburse- 
ment sufficient. 

“ Sieur Clubin received your money, includ- 
ing interest, in a remarkably energetic manner. 
He appeared to me, indeed, singularly zealous. 
This is, in fact, my reason for apprising you of 
the facts. 

“ Your other confidential man of business, 

“Rantaine. 

“ Postscript. 

“ Sieur Clubin was in possession of a revolv- 
er, which will explain to you the circumstance 
of my having no receipt.” 

He who has ever touched a torpedo, or Ley- 
den jar fully charged, may have a notion of the 
effect produced on Mess Lethierry by his reading 
of this letter. 

Under that envelope, in that sheet of paper 
folded in four, to which he had at first paid so 
little attention, lay the elements of an extraor- 
dinary commotion. 

He recognized the writing and the signature. 
As to the facts which the letter contained, at 
first he understood nothing. 

The excitement of the event, however, soon 
gave movement to his faculties. 

The effective part of the shock he had received 
lay in the phenomenon of the seventy-five thou-, 
sand francs entrusted by Rantaine to Clubin ; 
this w r as a riddle which compelled Lethierry’s 
brain to work. Conjecture is a healthy occupa- 
tion for the mind. Reason is awakened, logic 
is called into play. 

For some time past, public opinion in Guern- 
sey had been undergoing a reaction on the sub- 
ject of Clubin — that man of such high reputa- 
tion for honour during many years ; that man 
so unanimously regarded with esteem. People 
had begun to question and to doubt ; there were 
wagers pro and con. Some light had been 
.thrown on the question in singular ways. The 
figure of Clubin began to come clearer ; that is 
to say, he began to be blacker in the eyes of the 
world. 

A judicial inquiry had taken place at St. 
Malo for the purpose of ascertaining what had 
become of the coastguard -man, number 619. 
Legal perspicacity had got upon a false scent, 
a thing which happens not unfrequently. It 
had started with the hypothesis that the man 
had been enticed by Zuela, and shipped aboard 
the “Tamaulipas” for Chili. This ingenious 
supposition had led to a considerable amount 
of wasted conjecture. The short-sightedness 
of justice had failed to take note of Rantaine, 
but in the progress of inquiry the authorities 
had come upon other clews. The affair, so ob- 
scure, became complicated. Clubin had become 
mixed up with the enigma. A coincidence. 


336 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


perhaps a direct connection had been found be- 
tween the departure of the “Tamaulipas” and 
the loss of the Durande. At the wine-shop 
near the Dinan Gate, where Clubin thought 
himself entirely unknown, he had been recog- 
nised. The wine-shop keeper had talked ; Clu- 
bin had bought a bottle of brandy that night. 
For whom ? The gunsmith of St. Vincent 
Street, too, had talked. Clubin had purchased 
a revolver. For what object? The landlord 
of the “Jean Auberge” had talked. Clubin 
had absented himself in an inexplicable man- 
ner. Captain Gertrais-Gabourreau had talked ; 
Clubin had determined to start, although warn- 
ed, and knowing that he might expect a great 
fog. The crew of the Durande had talked. 
In fact, the collection of the freight had been 
neglected, and the stowage badly arranged, a 
negligence easy to comprehend, if the captain 
had determined to wreck the ship. The Guern- 
sey passenger, too, had spoken. Clubin had 
evidently imagined that he had run upon the 
Hanways. The Torteval people had spoken. 
Clubin had visited that neighbourhood a few 
days before the loss of the Durande, and had 
been seen walking in the dhection of Plein- 
mont, near the Hanways. He had with him a 
travelling-bag. “He had set out with it, and 
come back without it.” The birds’-nesters had 
spoken : their story seemed to be possibly con- 
nected with Clubin’s disappearance, if, instead 
of ghosts, they supposed smugglers. Finally, 
the haunted house of Pleinmont itself had spo- 
ken. Persons who had determined to get in- 
formation, had climbed and entered the -win- 
dows, and had found inside — what? The very 
travelling-bag which had been seen in Sieur Clu- 
bin’s possession. The authorities of the Dou- 
zaine of Torteval had taken possession of the 
bag and had it opened. It was found to con- 
tain provisions, a telescope, a chronometer, a 
man’s clothing, and linen marked with Clubin’s 
initials. All this in the gossip of St. Malo and 
Guernsey became more and more like a case of 
fraud. Obscure hints were brought together; 
there appeared to have been a singular disregard 
of advice ; a willingness to encounter the dangers 
of the fog ; a suspected negligence in the stow- 
age of the cargo. Then there was the mysteri- 
ous bottle of brandy ; a drunken helmsman ; a 
substitution of the captain for the helmsman ; a 
management of the rudder, to say the least, un- 
skilful. The heroism of remaining behind upon 
the wreck began to look like roguery. Clubin, 
besides, had evidently been deceived as to the 
rock he was on. Granted an intention to wreck 
the vessel, it was easy to understand the choice 
of the Hanways, the shore easily reached by 
swimming, and the intended concealment in the 
haunted house awaiting the opportunity for 
flight. The travelling-bag, that suspicious pre- 
parative, completed the demonstration. By 
what link this affair connected itself with the 
other affair of the disappearance of the coast- 
guard-man nobody knew. People imagined 
some connection, and that was all. They had 


a glimpse in their minds of the look-out man, 
number 619, alongside of the mysterious Clubin 
— quite a tragic drama. Clubin possibly was 
not an actor in it, but his presence was visible 
in the side scenes. 

The supposition of a wilful destruction of the 
Durande did not explain everything. There 
was a revolver in the story, with no part yet as- 
signed to it. The revolver, probably, belonged' 
to the other affair. 

The scent of the public is keen and true. Its 
instinct excels in those discoveries of truth by 
pieces and fragments. Still, amidst these facts, 
which seemed to point pretty clearly to a case 
of barratry, there were serious difficulties. 

Everything was consistent — everything co- 
herent ; but a basis was wanting. 

People do not wreck vessels for the pleasure 
of wrecking them. Men do not run all those 
risks of fog, rocks, swimming, concealment, and 
flight without an interest. What could have 
been Clubin’s interest? 

The act seemed plain, but the motive was 
puzzling. 

Hence a doubt in many minds. Where there 
is no motive, it is natural to infer that there was 
no act. 

The missing link was important. The letter 
from Rantaine seemed to supply it. 

This letter furnished a motive for Clubin’s 
supposed crime — seventy-five thousand francs to 
be appropriated. 

Rantaine was the Deus ex machina. He had 
descended from the clouds with a lantern in hit* 
hand. His letter was the final light upon the 
affair. It explained everything, and even prom- 
ised a witness in the person of Ahier-Tostevin. 

The part which it at once suggested for the 
revolver was decisive. Rantaine was undoubt- 
edly well informed. His letter pointed clearly 
the explanation of the mystery. 

There could be no possible palliation of Clu- 
bin’s crime. He had premeditated the ship- 
wreck; the proofs were the preparations dis- 
covered in the haunted house. Even supposing 
him innocent, and admitting the wreck to have 
been accidental, would he not, at the last mo- 
ment, when he had determined to sacrifice him- 
self with the vessel, have intrusted the seventy- 
five thousand francs to the men who escaped in 
the long-boat? The evidence was strikingly 
complete. Now what had become of Clubin ? 
He had probably been the victim of his blunder. 
He had doubtless perished upon the Douvres. 

All this construction of surmises, which were 
not far from the reality, had for several days 
occupied the mind of Mess Lethierry. The 
letter from Rantaine had done him the service 
of setting him to think. He was at first shaken 
by his surprise ; then he made an effort to re- 
flect. He made another effort more difficult 
still, that of inquiry. He was induced to listen, 
and even to seek conversation. At the end of a 
week he had become, to a certain degree, in the 
world again ; his thoughts had regained their 
coherence, and he was almost restored. He 


I 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


had emerged from his confused and troubled 
state. 

Rantaine’s letter, even admitting that Mess 
Lethierry could ever have entertained any hope 
of the reimbursement of his money, destroyed 
that last chance. 

It added to the catastrophe of the Durande 
this new wreck of seventy-five thousand francs. 
It put him in possession of that amount just so 
far as to make him sensible of its loss. The 
letter revealed to him the extreme point in his 
ruin. 

Hence he experienced a new and very pain- 
ful impression, which we have already spoken 
of. He began to take an interest in his house- 
hold — what it was to be in the future — how he 
was to set things in order ; matters of which he 
had taken no heed for two months past. These 
trifling cares wounded him with a thousand tiny 
points, worse in their aggregate than the old de- 
spair. A sorrow is doubly burdensome which 
has to be endured in eaph item, and while dis- 
puting inch by inch with fate for ground al- 
ready lost. Ruin is endurable in the mass, but 
not in the dust and fragments of the fallen edi- 
fice. The great fact may overwhelm, but the 
details torture. The catastrophe which lately 
fell like a thunderbolt becomes now a cruel per- 
secution. Humiliation comes to aggravate the 
blow. A second desolation succeeds the first, 
with features more repulsive. You descend one 
degree nearer to annihilation. The winding- 
sheet becomes changed to sordid rags. 

No thought is more bitter than that of one’s 
own gradual fall from a social position. 

Ruin is simple enough. A violent shock ; a 
cruel turn of fate ; a catastrophe once for all. 
Be it so. We submit, and all is over. You 
are ruined : it is well ; you are dead ? No ; 
you are still living. On the morrow you knoAV 
it well. By what? By the pricking of a pin. 
Yonder passer-by omits to recognise you ; the 
tradesmen’s bills rain down upon you ; and 
yonder is one of your enemies, who is smiling. 
Perhaps he is thinking of Arnal’s last pun ; but 
it is all the same. The pun would not have 
appeared to him so inimitable but for your ruin. 
You read your own sudden insignificance even 
in looks of indifference. Friends who used to 
dine at your table become of opinion that three 
courses were an extravagance. Your faults are 
patent to the eyes of everybody; ingratitude, 
having nothing more to expect, proclaims itself 
openly ; every idiot has foreseen your misfor- 
tunes. The malignant pull you to pieces ; the 
more malignant profess to pity. And then 
come a hundred paltry details. Nausea suc- 
ceeds to grief. You have been wont to indulge 
in -wine ; you must now drink cider. Two serv- 
ants, too ! Why, one will be too many. It will 
be necessary to discharge this one, and get rid 
of that. Flowers in your garden are superflu- 
ous; you will plant it with potatoes. You used 
to make presents of your fruits to friends ; you 
will send them henceforth to market. As to 
the poor, it will be absurd to think of giving 


137 

anything to them. Are you not poor yourself? 
And then there is the painful question of dress. 
To have to refuse a wife a new ribbon, what a 
torture ! To have to refuse one who has made 
you a gift of her beauty a trifling article ; haggle 
over such matters, like a miser ! Perhaps she 
will say to you, “What! rob my garden of its 
flowers, and now refuse one for my bonnet !” 
Ah me ! to have to condemn her to shabby 
dresses. The family table is silent. You fancy 
that those around it think harshly of you. Be- 
loved faces have become clouded. This is what 
is meant by falling fortunes. It is to die day 
by day. To be struck down is like the blast 
of the furnace ; to decay like this is the torture 
of the slow fire. 

An overwhelming blow is a sort of Waterloo ; 
a slow decay, a St. Helena. Destiny, incarnate 
in the form of Wellington, has still some dig- 
nity ; but how sordid in the shape of Hudson 
Lowe. Fate becomes then a paltry huckster. 
We find the man of Campo Formio quarrelling 
about a pair of stockings ; we see that dwarfing 
of Napoleon which makes England less. Wa- 
terloo and St. Helena ! Reduced to humbler 
proportions, every ruined man has traversed 
those two phases. 

On the evening we have mentioned, and 
which was one of the first evenings in May, 
Lethierry, leaving Deruchette to walk by moon- 
light in the garden, had gone to bed more de- 
pressed than ever. 

All these mean and repulsive details, peculiar 
^o worldly misfortune ; all these trifling cares, 
which are at first insipid, and afterwards har- 
assing, were revolving in his mind. A sullen 
load of miseries! Mess Lethierry felt that his 
fall was irremediable. What could he do ? 
What would become of them? What sacrifices 
should he be compelled to impose on Deru- 
chette? Whom should he discharge — Douce 
or Grace ? Would they have to sell the Bra- 
vees ? Would they not be compelled to leave 
the island ? To be nothing where he had been 
everything ; it was a terrible fall indeed. 

And to know that the old times were gone 
for ever! To recall those journeys to and fro, 
uniting France with those numberless islands; 
the Tuesday’s departure, the Friday’s return, 
the crowd on the quay, those great cargoes, that 
industry, that prosperity, that proud direct navi- 
gation, that machinery embodying the will of 
man, that all-powerful boiler, that smoke, all 
that reality ! The steam-boat had been the final 
crown of the compass; the needle indicating the 
direct track, the steam vessel following it. One 
proposing, the other executing. Where was she 
now, his Durande, that mistress of the seas, that 
queen who had made him a king? To have 
been so long the man of ideas in his own coun- 
try, the man of success, the man who revolution- 
ized navigation, and then to have to give up 
all, to abdicate ! To cease to exist, to become 
a by-word, an empty bag which once was full. 
To belong to the past, after having so long rep- 
resented the future. To come down to be an 


138 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


object of pity to fools, to witness the triumph 
of routine, obstinacy, conservatism, selfishness, 
ignorance. To see the old barbarous sailing 
cutters crawling to and fro upon the sea; the 
outworn Old-world prejudices young again ; to 
have wasted a whole life; to have been a light, 
and to suffer this eclipse. Ah ! what a sight it 
was upon the waves, that noble funnel, that pro- 
digious cylinder, that pillar with its capital of 
smoke, that column grander than any in the 
Place Vendome, for on that there was only a 
man, while on this stood Progress. The ocean 
was beneath it ; it was certainty upon the open 
sea. And had all this been witnessed in that 
little island, in that little harbour, in that little 
town of St. Sampson? Yes, it had been wit- 
nessed. And could it be, that having seen it, 
all had vanished to be seen no more ? 

All this series of regrets tortured Lethierry. 
There is such a thing as a mental sobbing. 
Never, perhaps, had he felt his misfortune more 
bitterly. A certain numbness follows this acute 
suffering. Under the weight of his sorrow he 
gradually dozed. 

For about two hours he remained in this 
state, feverish, sleeping a little, meditating 
much. Such torpors are accompanied by an 
obscure labour of the brain, which is inexpres- 
sibly wearying. Towards the middle of the 
night, about midnight, a little before or a little 
after, he shook off this lethargy. He aroused, 
and opened his eyes. His window was directly 
in front of his hammock. He saw something 
extraordinary. 

A form was before the window — a marvellous 
form. It was the funnel of a steam vessel. 

Mess Lethierry started, and sat upright in his 
bed. The hammock oscillated like a swing in a 
tempest. Lethierry stared. A vision filled the 
window-frame. There was the harbour flooded 
with the light of the moon, and against that 
glitter, quite close to his house, stood forth, tall, 
round, and black, a magnificent object. 

The funnel of a steam vessel was there. 

Lethierry sprang out of his hammock, ran to 
the window, lifted the sash, leaned out, and rec- 
ognised it. 

The funnel of the Durande stood before him. 

It was in the old place. 

Its four chains supported it, made fast to the 
bulwarks of a vessel in which, beneath the fun- 
nel, he could distinguish a dark mass of irregu- 
lar outline. 

Lethierry recoiled, turned his back to the 
window, and dropped in a sitting posture into 
his hammock again. 

Then he returned, and once more he saw the 
vision. 

An instant afterwards, or in about the time 
occupied by a flash of lightning, he was out 
upon the quay, with a lantern in his hand. 

A bark carrying a little backward a massive 
block from which issued the straight funnel be- 
fore the window of the Bravees, was made fast 
to the mooring-ring of the Durande. The bows 
of the bark stretched beyond the corner of the 


wall of the house, and were level with the 
quay. 

There was no one aboard. 

The vessel was of a peculiar shape. All 
Guernsey would have recognised it. It w r as 
the old Dutch sloop. 

Lethierry jumped aboard; he ran forward to 
the block which he saw beyond the mast. 

It was there, entire, complete, intact, standing 
square and firm upon its cast-iron flooring ; the 
boiler had all its rivets, the axle of the paddle- 
wheels was raised erect, and made fast near the 
boiler; the feed-pump was in its place ; nothing 
was wanting. 

Lethierry examined the machinery. 

The lantern and the moon helped him in his 
examination. He went over every part of the 
mechanism. 

He noticed the two cases at the sides. He 
examined the axle of the wheels. 

He went into the little cabin ; it was empty. 

He returned to the engine, and felt it, looked 
into the boiler, and knelt down to examine it 
inside. 

He placed his lantern within the furnace, 
where the light, illuminating all the machinery, 
produced almost the illusion of an engine-room 
with its fire. 

Then he burst into a wild laugh, sprang to 
his feet, and with his eye fixed on the engine, 
and his arms outstretched towards the funnel, 
he cried aloud, “ Help !” 

The harbour-bell was upon the quay, at a few 
paces distance. He ran to it, seized the chain, 
and began to pull it violently. 


n. 

THE HARBOUR BELL AGAIN. 

Gilliatt, in fact, after a passage without ac- 
cident, but somewdiat slow on account of the 
heavy burden of the sloop, had arrived at St. 
Sampson after dark, and nearer ten than nine 
o’clock. 

He had calculated the time. The half flood 
had arrived. There was plenty of w r ater, and 
the moon was shining, so that he was able to 
enter the port. 

The little harbour was silent. A few vessels 
w ere moored there, with their sails brailed up to 
the yards, their tops over, and without lanterns. 
At the far end a few others were visible, high 
and dry in the careenage, where they were un- 
dergoing repairs ; large hulls dismasted and 
stripped, with their planking open at various 
parts, lifting high the ends of their timbers, and 
looking like huge dead beetles lying on their 
backs with their legs in the air. 

As soon as he had cleared the harbour mouth, 
Gilliatt examined the port and the quay. There 
was no light to be seen either at the Bravees or 
elsew r here. The place was deserted save, per- 
haps, by some one going to or returning from 
the parsonage-house ; nor was it possible to be 
sure even of this, for the night blurred every 


THE TOILERS OE THE SEA. 


139 


outline, and the moonlight always gives to ob- 
jects a vague appearance. The distance added 
to the indistinctness. The parsonage-house at 
that period was situated on the other side of the 
harbour, where there stands at the present day 
an open mast-house. 

Gilliatt had approached the Bravees quietly, 
and had made the sloop fast to the ring of the 
Durande, under Mess Lethierry’s window. 

He leaped over the bulwarks, and was ashore. 

Leaving the sloop behind him by the quay, he 
turned the angle of the house, passed along a 
little narrow street, then along another, did not 
even notice the pathway which branched off 
leading to the Bu de la Rue, and in a few min- 
utes found himself at that corner of the wall 
where there were wild mallows with pink flow- 
ers in June, with holly, ivy, and nettles. Many 
a time concealed behind the bushes, seated on a 
stone, in the summer days, he had watched here 
through long hours, even for whole months, oft- 
en tempted to climb the wall, over which he 
contemplated the garden of the Bravees and the 
two windows of a little room seen through the 
branches of the trees. The stone was there 
still ; the bushes, the low wall, the angle, as 
quiet and dark as ever. Like an animal re- 
turning to its hole, gliding rather than walking, 
he made his way in. Once seated there, he 
made no movement. He looked around ; saw 
again the garden, the pathways, the beds of 
flowers, the house, the two windows of the 
chamber. The moonlight fell upon this dream. 
He felt it horrible to be compelled to breathe, 
and did what he could to prevent it. 

He seemed to be gazing on a vision of para- 
dise, and was afraid that all would vanish. It 
was almost impossible that all these things could 
be really before his eyes ; and if they were, it 
could only be with that imminent danger of 
melting into air which belongs to things divine. 
A breath, and all must be dissipated. He trem- 
bled with the thought. 

Before him, not far off, at the side of one of 
the alleys in the garden, was a wooden seat 
painted green. The reader will remember this 
seat. 

Gilliatt looked up at the two windows. He 
thought of the slumber of some one possibly in 
that room. Behind that wall she was no doubt 
sleeping. He wished himself elsewhere, yet 
would sooner have died than go away. He 
thought of a gentle breathing moving a sleeping 
figure. It was she, that vision, that purity in 
the clouds, that form haunting him by day and 
night. She was there ! He thought of her so 
far removed, and yet so near as to be almost 
within reach of his delight ; he thought of that 
impossible ideal drooping in slumber, and like 
himself, too, visited by visions ; of that being 
so long desired, so distant, so impalpable — her 
closed eyelids, her face resting on her hand ; of 
the mystery of sleep in its relations with that 
pure spirit, of what dreams might come to one 
who was herself a dream. He dared not think 
beyond, and yet he did. He ventured on those 


familiarities which the fancy may indulge in; 
the notion of how much was feminine in that 
angelic being disturbed his thoughts. The dark- 
ness of night emboldens timid imaginations to 
take these furtive glances. He was vexed 
within himself, feeling on reflection as if it were,/ 
profanity to think of her so boldly ; yet still con- 
strained, in spite of himself, he tremblingly gazed 
into the invisible. He shuddered almost with 
a sense of pain as he imagined her room — a pet- 
ticoat on a chair, a mantle fallen on the carpet, 
a band unbuckled, a handkerchief. He imag- 
ined her corset with its lace hanging to the 
ground, her stockings, her boots. His soul was 
among the stars. 

The stars are made for the human heart of a 
poor man like Gilliatt not less than for that of 
the rich and great. There is a certain degree of 
passion by which every man becomes wrapped 
in a celestial light. With a rough and primi- 
tive nature, this truth is even more applicable. 
An uncultivated mind is easily touched with 
dreams. 

Delight is a fullness which overflows like any 
other. To see those windows was almost too 
much happiness for Gilliatt. 

Suddenly he looked and saw her. 

From the branches of a clump of bushes, al- 
ready thickened by the spring, there issued with 
a spectral slowness a celestial figure, a dress, a 
divine face, almost a shining light beneath the 
moon. 

Gilliatt felt his powers failing him : it was 
Deruchette. 

Deruchette approached. She stopped. She 
walked back a few paces, stopped again ; then 
returned and sat upon the wooden bench. The 
moon was in the trees, a few clouds floated 
among the pale stars ; the sea murmured to the 
shadows in an under tone, the town was sleep- 
ing, a thin haze was rising from the horizon, 
the melancholy was profound. Deruchette in- 
clined her head, with those thoughtful eyes 
which look attentive yet see nothing. She was 
seated sideways, and had nothing on her head 
but a little cap untied, which showed upon her 
delicate neck the commencement of her hair. 
She twirled mechanically a ribbon of her cap 
around one of her fingers ; the half light show- 
ed the outline of her hands like those of a stat- 
ue ; her dress was one of those shades which 
by night look white : the trees stirred as if they 
felt the enchantment which she shed around her. 
The tip of one of her feet was visible. Her 
lowered eyelids had that vague contraction which 
suggests a tear checked in its course, or a thought 
suppressed. There was a charming indecision 
in the movements of her arms, which had no 
support to lean on ; a sort of floating mingled 
with every posture. It was rather a gleam than 
a light — rather a grace than a goddess; the 
folds of her dress were exquisite ; her face, 
which might inspire adoration, seemed medita- 
tive, like portraits of the Virgin. It was terri- 
ble to think how near she was ; Gilliatt could 
hear her breathe. 


140 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


A nightingale was singing in the distance. 
The stirring of the wind among the branches 
set in movement the inexpressible silence of the 
night. De'ruchette, beautiful, divine, appeared 
in the twilight like a creation from those rays 
and from the perfumes in the air. That wide- 
spread enchantment seemed to concentre and 
embody itself mysteriously in her ; she became 
its living manifestation. She seemed the spir- 
itual flower of all that shadow and silence. 

But the shadow and silence which floated 
lightly about her weighed heavily on Gilliatt. 
He was bewildered ; what he experienced is not 
to be told in words. Emotion is always new, 
and the word is always enough. Hence the 
impossibility of expressing emotion. Joy is 
sometimes overwhelming. To see De'ruchette, 
to see her herself, to see her dress, her cap, her 
ribbon, which she twined around her finger, was 
it possible to imagine it? Was it possible to 
be thus- near her; to hear her breathe? She 
breathed! then the stars might breathe also. 
Gilliatt felt a thrill through him. He was the 
most miserable and yet the happiest of men. 
He knew not what to do. His delirious joy at 
seeing her annihilated him. Was it indeed De'- 
ruchette there, and he so near ? His thoughts, 
bewildered and yet fixed, were fascinated by that 
figure as by a dazzling jewel. He gazed upon 
her neck— her hair. He did not even say to 
himself that all that would now belong to him ; 
that before long — to-morrow, perhaps — he would 
have the right to take off that cap, to unknot 
that ribbon. He would not have conceived for 
a moment the audacity cf thinking even so far. 
Touching in idea is almost like touching with 
the hand. Love was with Gilliatt like honey to 
the bear. He thought confusedly ; he knew not 
what possessed him. The nightingale still sang. 
He felt as if about to breathe his life out. 

The idea of rising, of jumping over the wall, 
of speaking to Deruchette, never came into his 
mind. If it had, he would have turned and 
fled. If anything resembling a thought had 
begun to dawn in his mind, it was this : that 
Deruchette was there, that he wanted nothing 
more, and that eternity had begun. 

A noise aroused them both — her from her 
reverie, him from his ecstasy. 

Some one was walking in the garden. It 
was not possible to see who was approaching on 
account of the trees. It was the footstep of a 
man. 

Deruchette raised her eyes. 

The steps drew nearer, then ceased. The 
person walking had stopped. He must have 
been quite near. The path beside which was 
the bench wound between two clumps of trees. 
The stranger was there in the alley between the 
trees, at a few paces from the seat. 

Accident had so placed the branches that De'- 
ruchette could see the new-comer, while Gilliatt 
could not. 

The moon cast on the ground beyond the 
trees a shadow which reached to the garden seat. 

Gilliatt could see this shadow. 


He looked at Deruchette. 

She was quite pale ; her mouth was partly 
open, as with a suppressed cry of surprise. She 
had just half risen from the bench, and sunk 
again upon it. There was in her attitude a 
mixture of fascination with a desire to fly. Her 
surprise was enchantment mingled with timid- 
ity. She had upon her lips almost the light of 
a smile, with the fullness of tears in her eyes. 
She seemed as if transfigured by that presence ; 
as if the being that she saw before her belonged 
not to this earth. The reflection of an angel 
was in her look. 

The stranger, who was to Gilliatt only a 
shadow, spoke. A voice issued from the trees, 
softer than the voice of a woman, and yet it 
was the voice of a man. Gilliatt heard these 
words : 

I see you, mademoiselle, every Sunday and 
every Thursday. They tell me that once you 
used not to come so often. It is a remark that 
has been made. I ask your pardon. I have 
never spoken to you ; it was my duty ; but I 
come to speak to you to-day, for it is still my 
duty. It is right that I speak to you first. 
The ‘Cashmere’ sails to-morrow. This is why 
I have come. You walk every evening in your 
garden. It would be wrong of me to know 
your habits so well, if I had not the thought 
that I have. Mademoiselle, you are poor ; since 
this morning I am rich. Will you have me for 
your husband?” 

Deruchette joined her two hands in a suppli- 
ant attitude, and looked at the speaker, silent, 
with fixed eyes, and trembling from head to foot. 

The voice continued : 

“I love you. God made not the heart of 
man to be silent. He has promised him eterni- 
ty with the intention that he should not be 
alone. There is for me but one woman upon 
earth. It is you. I think of you as of a pray- 
er. My faith is in God, and my hope in you. 
What wings I have you bear. You an^my life, 
and already my supreme happiness.” 

“ Sir,” said Deruchette, “ there is no one to 
answer in the house!” 

The voice rose again : 

“ Yes, I have encouraged that dream. Heav- 
en has not forbidden us to dream. You are 
like a glory in my eyes. I love you deeply, 
mademoiselle. To me you are holy innocence. 
I know it is the hour at which your household 
have retired to rest, but I had no choice of any 
other moment. Do you remember that passage 
of the Bible which some one read before us ; it 
was the twenty-fifth chapter of Genesis. I have 
thought of it often since. M. Herode said to 
me, you must have a rich wife. I replied no, I 
must have a poor wife. I speak to you, made- 
moiselle, without venturing to approach you ; I 
would step even further back if it was your wish 
that my shadow should not touch your feet. 
You alone are supreme. You will come to me 
if such is your will. I love and wait. You are 
the living form of a benediction.” 

“ I did not know, sir,” stammered Deruchette, 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


141 


“ that any one remarked me on Sundays and 
Thursdays.” 

The voice continued : 

“We are powerless against celestial things. 
The whole Law is love. Marriage is Canaan ; 
you are to me the promised land of beauty.” 

Deruchette replied, “ I did not think I did 
wrong any more than other persons who are 
strict.” 

The voice continued : 

“ God manifests his will in the flowers, in the 
light of dawn, in the spring ; and love is of his 
ordaining. You are beautiful in this holy shad- 
ow of night. This garden has been tended by 
you ; in its perfumes there is something of your 
breath. The affinities of our souls do not de- 
pend on us. They cannot be counted with our 
sins. You were there, that was all. I was 
there, that was all. I did nothing but feel that 
I loved you. Sometimes my eyes rested upon 
you. I was wrong, but what could I do ? It 
was through looking at you that all happened. 
I could not restrain my gaze. There are mys- 
terious impulses which are above our search. 
The heart is the chief of all temples. To have 
your spirit in my house — this is the terrestrial 
paradise for which I hope. Say, will you be 
mine ? As long as I was poor, I spoke not. I 
know your age. You are twenty-one ; I am 
twenty-six. I go to-morrow ; if you refuse me 
I return no more. Oh, be my betrothed ; will 
you not? More than once have my eyes, in 
spite of myself, addressed to you that question. 
I love you ; answer me. I will speak to your 
uncle as soon as he is able to receive me ; but I 
turn first to you. To Rebecca I plead for Re- 
becca, unless you love me not.” 

Deruchette hung her head, and murmured, 

“ Oh ! I worship him.” 

The words were spoken in a voice so low 
that only Gilliatt heard them. 

She remained with her head lowered as if 
by shading her face she hoped to conceal her 
thoughts. 

There was a pause. No leaf among the trees 
was stirred. It was that solemn and peaceful 
moment when the slumber of external things 
mingles with the sleep of living creatures, and 
K 


night seems to listen to the beating of Nature’s 
heart. In the midst of that retirement, like a 
harmony making the silence more complete, 
rose the wide murmur of the sea. 

The voice was heard again : 

“ Mademoiselle!” 

Deruchette started. 

Again the voice spoke. 

“You are silent.” 

“What would you have me say?” 

“I wait for your reply.” 

“God has heard it,” said Deruchette. 

Then the voice became almost sonorous, and 
at the same time softer than before, and these 
words issued from the leaves as from a burning 
bush : 

“You are my betrothed. Come then to me. 
Let the blue sky, with all its stars, be witness 
of this taking of my soul to thine, and let our 
first embrace be mingled with that firmament.” 

Deruchette arose and remained an instant 
motionless, looking straight before her, doubt- 
less in another’s eyes. Then, with slow steps, 
with head erect, her arms drooping, but with 
the fingers of her hands wide apart, like one 
who leans on some unseen support, she ad- 
vanced towards the trees, and was out of sight. 

A moment afterwards, instead of the one 
shadow upon the trravelled walk, there were 
two. They mingled together. Gilliatt saw at 
his feet the embrace of those two shadows. 

In certain moments of crisis, time flows from 
us as his sands from the hour-glass, and we 
have no feeling of his flight. That pair on the 
one hand, who were ignorant of the presence of 
a witness, and saw him not ; on the other, that 
witness of their joy, who could not see them, 
but who knew of their presence — how many 
minutes did they remain thus in that mysteri- 
ous suspension of themselves ? It would be im- 
possible to say. Suddenly a noise burst forth 
at a distance. A voice was heard crying 
“Help!” and the harbour bell began to sound. 
It is probable that those celestial transports of 
delight heard no echo of that tumult. 

The bell continued to ring. Any one who 
had sought Gilliatt then in the angle of the 
Avail would have found him no longer there. 


142 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


BOOK II. 

GRATITUDE AND DESPOTISM. 


I. 

JOT SURROUNDED BY TORTURES. 

Mess Lethierry pulled the bell furiously, 
then stopped abruptly. A man had just turned 
the corner of the quay. It was Gilliatt. 

Lethierry ran towards him, or rather flung 
himself upon him ; seized his hand between his 
own, and looked him in the face for a moment 
silent. It was that silence which precedes an 
explosion struggling to find an issue. 

Then pulling and shaking him with violence, 
and squeezing him in his arms, he compelled 
him to enter the lower room of the Bravees, 
pushed back with his heel the door which had 
remained half opened, sat down or sank into a 
chair beside a great table lighted by the moon, 
the reflection of which gave a vague pallor to 
Gilliatt’s face, and, with a voice of intermingled 
laughter and tears, cried, 

“Ah! my son — my player of the bagpipe! 
I knew well that it was you. The sloop, par- 
bleu! Tell me the story. You went there, 
then ? Why, they would have burnt you a 
hundred years ago ! It is magic ! There isn’t 
a screw missing. I have looked at everything 
already, recognised everything, handled every- 
thing. I guessed that the paddles were in the 
two cases. And here you are once more! I 
have been looking for you in the little cabin. 
I rang the bell. I was seeking for you. I 
said to myself, ‘Where is he, that I may de- 
vour him?’ You must admit that wonder- 
ful things do come to pass. He has brought 
back life to me. Tonnerre! you are an angel! 
Yes, yes, it is my engine. Nobody will be- 
lieve it ; people will see it, and say, ‘ It can’t 
be true.’ Not a tap, not a pin missing. The 
feed-pipe has never budged an inch. It is in- 
credible that there should have been no more 
damage. We have only to put a little oil. But 
how did you accomplish it? To think that 
the Durande will be moving again. The axle 
of the wheels must have been taken to pieces 
by some watchmaker. Give me your word 
that I am not crazy.” 

He sprang to his feet, breathed a moment, 
and continued : 

“Assure me of that. What a revolution! 
I pinched myself to be certain I was not dream- 
ing. You are my child, you are my son, you 
are my Providence. Ah ! my lad — to go and 
fetch my good old engine. In the open sea, 
among those cut-throat rocks. I have seen 
some strange things in my life; nothing like 
that. I have known Parisians who were veri- 
table demons, but I’ll defy them to have done 
that. It beats the Bastille. I have seen the 
gauchos labouring in the Pampas with a crook- 


ed branch of a tree for a plough, and a bundle 
of thorn -bushes for a harrow, dragged by a 
leathern strap ; they get harvests of wheat that 
way, with grains as big as hedgenuts. But 
that is a trifle compared with your feats. You 
have performed a miracle — a real one. Ah ! 
gredin! let me hug you. How they will gossip 
in St. Sampson ! I shall set to work at once 
to build the boat. It is astonishing that the 
crank is all right. ‘ Gentlemen, he has been to 
the Douvres’ — I say to the Douvres. ‘ He went 
alone.’ The Douvres! I defy you to find a 
worse spot. Do you know — have they told you 
— that it’s proved that Clubin sent the Durande 
to the bottom to swindle me out of money 
which he had to bring me ? He made Tan- 
grouille drunk. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you 
another day of his piratical tricks. I, stupid 
idiot, had confidence in Clubin. But he trapped 
himself, the villain ! for he couldn’t have got 
away. There is a God above, scoundrel ! Do 
you see, Gilliatt, bang ! bang ! the irons in 
the fire. We’ll begin at once to rebuild the 
Durande. We’ll have her twenty feet longer. 
They build them longer now than they did. 
I’ll buy the w r ood from Dantzic and Breme. 
Now I’ve got the machinery, they will give 
me credit again. They’ll have confidence » 
now.” 

Mess Lethierry stopped, lifted his eyes with 
that look which sees the heavens through the 
roof, and muttered, “Yes, there is a power on 
high !” 

Then he placed the middle finger of his right 
hand between his two eyebrows, and tapped 
with his nail there, an action which indicates a 
project passing through the mind, and he con- 
tinued : 

“Nevertheless, to begin again, on a grand 
scale, a little ready money would have been 
useful. Ah ! if I only had my three bank- 
notes — the seventy-five thousand francs that 
that robber Rantaine returned, and that vaga- 
bond Clubin stole.” 

Gilliatt silently felt in his pocket, and drew 
out something which he placed before him. It 
was the leathern belt that he had brought back. 
He opened, and spread it out upon the table ; in 
the inside the word “ Clubin” could be deci- 
phered in the light of the moon. He then took 
out of the pocket of the belt a box, and out of 
the box three pieces of paper, which he unfold- 
ed and offered to Lethierry. 

Lethierry examined them. It was light 
enough to read the figures “1000,” and the 
word “thousand” was also perfectly visible. 
Mess Lethierry took the three notes, placed 
them on the table one beside the other, looked 
at them, looked at Gilliatt, stood for a moment 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


143 


dumb, and then began again, like an eruption 
after an explosion : 

“These too! You are a marvel. My bank- 
notes ! all three. A thousand pounds each. 
My seventy-five thousand francs. Why, you 
must have gone down to the infernal regions. 
It is Clubin’s belt. Pardieu ! I can read his 
vile name. Gilliatt has brought back engine 
and money too. There will be something to 
put in the papers. I will buy some timber of 
the finest quality. I guess how it was; you 
found his carcass — Clubin mouldering away in 
some corner. We’ll have some Dantzic pine 
and Breme oak ; we’ll have a first-rate plank- 
ing — oak within, and pine without. In old 
times they didn’t build so well, but their work 
lasted longer; the wood was better seasoned, 
because they did not build so ‘much. We’ll 
build the hull perhaps of elm. Elm is good 
for the parts in the water. To be dry some- 
times, and sometimes wet, rots the timbers ; 
the elm requires to be always wet ; it’s a wood 
that feeds upon water. What a splendid Du- 
rande we’ll build. The lawyers will not trou- 
ble me again. I shall want no more credit. I 
have some money of my own. Did ever any 
one see a man like Gilliatt ! I was struck down 
to the ground; I was a dead man. He comes 
and sets me up again as firm as ever. And all 
the while I was never thinking about him. He 
had gone clean out of my mind ; but I recol- 
lect everything now. Poor lad ! Ah ! by the 
way, you know you are to marry Deruchette.” 

Gilliatt leaned with his back against the wall 
like one who staggers, and said, in a tone very 
low, but distinct, 

“No.” 

Mess Lethierry started. 

“How, no!” 

Gilliatt replied, 

,“ I do not love her.” 

Mess Lethierry went to the window, opened 
and reclosed it, took the three bank-notes, fold- 
ed them, placed the iron box on top, scratched 
his head, seized Clubin’s belt, flung it violently 
against the wall, and exclaimed, 

“You must be mad.” 

He thrust his fists into his pockets, and ex- 
claimed, 

“You don’t love Deruchette? What! was 
it at me, then, that you used to play the bag- 
pipe ?” 

Gilliatt, still supporting himself by the wall, 
turned pale, as a man near his end. As he be- 
came pale, Lethierry became redder. 

“There’s an idiot for you! He doesn’t love 
Deruchette. Very good ; make up your mind 
to love her, for she shall never marry any but 
you. A devilish pretty story that; and you 
think that I believe you. If there is anything 
really the matter with you, send for a doctor, 
but don’t talk nonsense. You can’t have had 
time to quarrel, or get out of temper with her. 
It is true that lovers are great fools sometimes. 
Come, now, what are your reasons? If you 
have any, say. People don’t make geese of 


themselves without reasons. But I have wool 
in my ears ; perhaps I didn’t understand. Re- 
peat to me what you said.” 

Gilliatt replied, 

“ I said No !” 

“You said No. He holds to it, the lunatic! 
You must be crazy. You said No. Here’s a 
stupidity beyond anything ever heard of. Why, 
people have had their heads shaven for much 
less than that. What! you don’t like Deru- 
chette ? Oh, then, it was out of affection for 
the old man that you did all these things? It 
was for the sake of papa that you went to the 
Douvres, that you endured cold and heat, and 
was half dead with hunger and thirst, and ate 
the limpets off the rocks, and had the fog, the 
rain, and the wind for your bedroom, and 
brought me back my machine, just as you might 
bring a pretty woman her little canary that had 
escaped from its cage. And the tempest that 
we had three days ago ! Do you think I don’t 
bear it in mind? You must have had a time 
of it! It was in the midst of all this misery, 
alongside of my old craft, that you shaped, and 
cut, and turned, and twisted, and dragged about, 
and filed, and sawed, and carpentered, and 
schemed, and performed more miracles there 
by yourself than all the saints in paradise. 
Ah ! you annoyed me enough once with your 
bagpipe. They call it a biniou in Brittany. 
Always the same tune too, silly fellow. And 
yet yon don’t love Deruchette? I don’t know 
what is the matter with you. I recollect it all 
now. I was there in the corner; De'ruchette 
said, ‘He shall be my husband;’ and so you 
shall. You don’t love her! Either you must 
be mad, or else I am mad. And you stand 
there, and speak not a word. I tell you you 
are not at liberty to do all the things you have 
done, and then say, after all, ‘ I don’t love De- 
ruchette.’ People don’t do others services in 
order to put them in a passion. Well, if you 
don’t marry her, she shall be single all her life. 
In the first place, I shall want you. You must 
be the pilot of the Durande. Do you imagine 
I mean to part with you like that? No, no, 
my brave boy, I don’t let you go. I have got 
you now ; I’ll not even listen to j'ou. Where 
will they find a sailor like you ? You are the 
man I want. But why don’t you speak?” 

Meanwhile the harbour bell had aroused the 
household and the neighbourhood. Douce and 
Grace had risen, and had just entered the lower 
room, silent and astonished. Grace had a can- 
dle in her hand. A group of neighbours, towns- 
people, sailors, and peasants, who had rushed 
out of their houses, were outside on the quay, 
gazing in wonderment at the funnel of the Du- 
rande in the sloop. Some, hearing Lethierry’s 
voice in the lower room, began to glide in by 
the half-opened door. Between the faces of 
two worthy old women appeared that of Sieur 
Landoys, who had the good fortune always to 
find himself where he would have regretted to 
have been absent. 

Men feel a satisfaction in having witnesses 


144 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


of their joys. The sort of scattered support 
which a crowd presents pleases them at such 
times ; their delight draws new life from it. 
Mess Lethierry suddenly perceived that there 
were persons about him, and he welcomed the 
audience at once. 

“ Ah ! you are here, my friends. I am very 
glad to see you. You know the news? That 
man has been there, and brought it back. How 
d’ye do, Sieur Landoys? When I woke up just 
now, the first thing I spied was the funnel. It 
was under my window. There’s not a nail 
missing. They make pictures of Napoleon’s 
deeds, but I think more of that than of the 
battle of Austerlitz. You have just left your 
beds, my good friends. The Durande has found 
you sleeping. While you are putting on your 
night-caps and blowing out your caudles, there 
are others working like heroes. We are a set 
of cowards and donothings ; we sit at home rub- 
bing our rheumatisms; but happily that does 
not prevent there being some of another stamp. 
The man of the Bu de la Rue has arrived from 
the Douvres rocks. He has fished up the Du- 
rande from the bottom of the sea, and fished 
up my money out of Clubin’s pocket from a 
greater depth still. But how did you contrive 
to do it? All the powers of darkness were 
against you — the wind and the sea — the sea 
and the wind. It’s true enough that you are a 
sorcerer. Those who say that are not so stu- 
pid after all. The Durande is back again. 
The tempests may rage now; that cuts the 
ground from under them. My friends, I can 
inform you that there "was no shipwreck after 
all. I have examined all the machinery. It 
is like new, perfect. The valves go as easily as 
rollers. You would think them made yester- 
day. You know that the waste water is carried 
away by a tube inside another tube, through 
which comes the water for the boilers ; this was 
to economize the heat. Well, the two tubes are 
there as good as ever. The complete engine, 
in fact. She is all there, her wheels and all. 
Ah ! you shall marry her.” 

“ Marry the complete engine ?” asked Sieur 
Landoys. 

“No — Derhuchette; yes — the engine. Both 
of them. He shall be my double son-in-law. 
He shall be her captain. Good-day, Captain 
Gilliatt; for there will soon be a captain of the 
Durande. We are going to do a world of busi- 
ness again. There will be trade, circulation, 
cargoes of oxen and sheep. I wouldn’t give St. 
Sampson for London now. And there stands 
the author of all this. It was a curious adven- 
ture, I can tell you. You will read about it on 
Saturday in old Mauger’s ‘ Gazette.’ Malicious 
Gilliatt is very malicious. What’s the mean- 
ing of these Louis-d’ors here ?” 

Mess Lethierry had just observed, through 
the opening of the lid, that there was some gold 
in the box upon the notes. He seized it, open- 
ed and emptied it into the palm of his hand, 
and put the handful of guineas on the table. 

“For the poor, Sieur Landoys. Give those 


sovereigns from me to the constable of St. Samp- 
son. You recollect Rantaine’s letter ? I show- 
ed it to you. Very well ; I’ve got the bank- 
notes. Now we can buy some oak and fir, and 
go to work at carpentering. Look you ! Do 
you remember the weather of three days ago ? 
What a hurricane of wind and rain ! Gilliatt 
endured all that upon the Douvres. That didn’t 
prevent his taking the wreck to pieces, as I 
might take my watch. Thanks to him, I am 
on my legs again. Old ‘Lethierry’s galley’ is 
going to run again, ladies and gentlemen. A 
nut-shell with a couple of wheels and a funnel. 
I always had that idea. I used to say to my- 
self, one day I will do it. That was a good 
long time back. It was an idea that came in 
my head at Baris, at the coffee-house at the cor- 
ner of the Rue Christine and the Rue Dau- 
phine, when I was reading a paper which had 
an account of it. Do you know that Gilliatt 
w r ould think nothing of putting the machine at 
Marly in his pocket, and walking about with it? 
He is wrought iron, that man ; tempered steel, 
a mariner of invaluable qualities, an excellent 
smith, an extraordinary fellow, more astonish- 
ing than the Prince of Hohenlohe. That is 
what I call a man with brains. We are chil- 
dren by the side of him. Sea-wolves w e may 
think ourselves, but the sea-lion is there. Hur- 
rah for Gilliatt ! I do not know how he has 
done it, but certainly he must have been the 
devil, and how can I do other than give him 
Deruchette ?” 

For some minutes Deruchette had been in 
the long room. She had not spoken or moved 
since she entered. She had glided in like a 
shadow, had sat down almost unperceived be- 
hind Mess Lethierry, who stood before her, lo- 
quacious, stormy, joyful, abounding in gestures, 
and talking in a loud voice. A little while aft- 
er her another silent apparition had appeared. 
A man attired in black, with a white cravat, 
holding his hat in his hand, stood in the door- 
way. There were now several candles among 
the group, which had gradually increased in 
number. These lights were near the man at- 
tired in black. His profile and youthful and 
pleasing complexion showed itself against the 
dark background with the clearness of an en- 
graving on a medal. He leaned with his shoul- 
der against the framework of the door, and held 
his left hand to his forehead, an attitude of un- 
conscious grace, which contrasted the breadth 
of his forehead with the smallness of his hand. 
There was an expression of anguish in hio con- 
tracted lips as he looked on and listened with 
profound attention. The standers-by having 
recognised M. Caudray, the rector of the parish, 
had fallen back to allow him to pass; but he 
remained upon the threshold. There was hes- 
itation in his posture, but decision in his looks, 
which now and then met those of Deruchette. 
With regard to Gilliatt, whether by chance or 
design, he was in shadow', and was only per- 
ceived indistinctly. 

At first Mess Lethierry did not observe Cau- 


145 


THE TOILEKS OF THE SEA. 


dray, but he saw Ddruchette. He went to her 
and kissed her fervently upon the forehead, 
Stretching forth his hand at the same time to- 
wards the dark corner where Gilliatt was stand- 
ing. 

“Deruchette,” he said, “we are rich again, 
and there is your future husband.” 

Deruchette raised her head, and looked into 
the darkness bewildered. 

Mess Lethierry continued : 

“ The marriage shall take place immediately, 
if it can ; they shall have a license : the for- 
malities here are not very troublesome; the 
Dean can do what he pleases ; people are mar- 
ried before they have time to turn round. It is 
not as in France, where you must have bans, 
and publications, and delays, and all that fuss. 
You will be able to boast of being the wife of 
a brave man, whom no one can say a word 
against. I thought of him from the day when 
I saw him come back from Herm with the little 
cannon. But now he comes back from the 
Douvres with his fortune and mine, and the 
fortune of this country — a man of whom the 
world will talk a great deal more one day. You 
said once, ‘I will marry him;’ and you shall 
marry him, and you shall have little children, 
and I will be grandpapa ; and you will have the 
good fortune to be the wife of a noble fellow, 
who can work, who can be useful to his fellow- 
men ; a surprising fellow, worth a hundred oth- 
ers; a man who can rescue other people’s in- 
ventions — a providence! At all events, you 
will not have married, like so many other silly 
girls about here, a soldier or a priest — that is, a 
man who kills or a man who lies. But what 
are you doing there, Gilliatt? Nobody can see 
you. Douce, Grace, everybody there ! Bring 
a light, I say. Light up my son-in-law for me. 
I betroth you to each other, my children : here 
stands your husband, here my son, Gilliatt of 
the Bd de la Rue, that noble fellow, that great 
seaman; I will have no other son-in-law, and 
you no other husband. I pledge my word once 
more in God’s name. Ah ! you are there, Mon- 
sieur the Cure. You will marry these young 
people for us.” 

Lethierry’s eye had just fallen upon Caudray. 

Douce and Grace had done as they were di- 
rected. Two candles placed upon the table cast 
a light upon Gilliatt from head to foot. 

“There’s a fine fellow,” said Mess Lethierry. 

Gilliatt’s appearance was hideous. 

He was in the condition in which he had that 
morning set sail from the rocks — in rags, his 
bare elbows showing through his sleeves, his 
beard long, his hair rough and wild, his eyes 
bloodshot, his skin peeling, his hands covered 
with wounds, his feet naked. Some of the blis- 
ters left by the devil-fish were still visible upon 
his hairy arms. 

Lethierry gazed at him; 

“This is my son-in-law,” he said. “How he 
has struggled with the sea ! He is all in rags. 
What shoulders ! what hands ! There’s a splen- 
did fellow !” 


Grace ran to Deruchette and supported her 
head. She had fainted. 


II. 

THE LEATHERN TRUNK. 

At break of day St. Sampson was on foot, and 
all the people of St. Peter’s Port began to arrive 
there. The resurrection of the Durande caused 
a commotion in the island not unlike what was 
caused by the “ Salette” in the south of France. 
There w r as a crowd on the quay staring at the 
funnel standing erect in the sloop. They were 
anxious to see and handle the machinery ; but 
Lethierry, after making a new and triumphant 
survey of the whole by daylight, had placed two 
sailors aboard, with instructions to prevent any 
one approaching it. The funnel, however, fur- 
nished food enough for contemplation. The 
crowd gaped with astonishment. They talked 
of nothing but Gilliatt. They remarked on his 
surname of “malicious Gilliatt,” and their ad- 
miration wound up with the remark, “It is not 
pleasant to have people in the island who can 
do things like that.” 

Mess Lethierry was seen from outside the 
house, seated at a table before the window, writ- 
ing, with one eye on the paper and another on 
the sloop. He was so completely absorbed that 
he had only once stopped to call Douce and ask 
after Deruchette. Douce replied, “Mademoi- 
selle has risen and is gone out.” Mess Lethier- 
ry replied, “ She is right to take the air. She 
was a little unwell last night, owing to the heat. 
There was a crowd in the room. This and her 
surprise and joy, and the windows being all 
closed, overcame her. She will have a husband 
to be proud of.” And he had gone on with his 
writing. He had already finished and sealed 
two letters, addressed to the most important 
ship-builders at Breme. He now finished the 
sealing of a third. 

The noise of a wheel upon the quay induced 
him to look up. He leaned out of the window, 
and observed, coming from the path which led 
to the Bd de la Rue, a boy pushing a wheel- 
barrow. The boy was going towards St. Peter’s 
Port. In the barrow was a portmanteau of 
brown leather, studded with nails of brass and 
white metal. 

Mess Lethierry called to the boy : 

“Where are you going, my lad?” 

The boy stopped and replied, 

“To the 4 Cashmere.’ ” 

“What for?” 

“To take this trunk aboard.” 

“ Very good ; you shall take these three let- 
ters too.” 

Mess Lethierry opened the drawer of his ta- 
ble, took a piece of string, tied the three letters 
which he had just written across and across, and 
threw the packet to the boy, who caught it be- 
tween his hands. 

“ Tell the captain of the 4 Cashmere’ they are 


146 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


my letters, and to take care of them. They are 
for Germany — Breme via London.” 

“I can’t speak to the captain, Mess Le- 
thierry.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ The ‘ Cashmere’ is not abreast of the quay.” 

“Ah!” 

* l She is in the roads.” 

“Ay, true — on account of the sea.” 

“ I can only speak to the man who takes the 
things aboard.” 

“You will tell him, then, to look to the let- 
ters.” 

“Very well, Mess Lethierry.” 

“At what time does the ‘ Cashmere’ sail ?” 

“At twelve.” 

“The tide will flow at noon ; she will have it 
against her.” 

“But she will have the wind,” answered the lad. 

“Boy,” said Mess Lethierry, pointing with 
his fore finger at the engine in the sloop, “ do 
you see that ? There is something which laughs 
at winds and tides.” 

The boy put the letters in his pocket, took 
up the handles of the barrow again, and went 


on his way towards the town. Mess Lethierry 
called “ Douce ! Grace !” 

Grace opened the door a little way. 

“ What is it, Mess?” 

“Come in and wait a moment.” 

Mess Lethierry took a sheet of paper and 
began to write. If Grace, standing behind him, 
had been curious, and had leaned forward while 
he was writing, she might have read as follows : 

“ I have written to Breme for the timber. I 
have appointments all the morning with car- 
penters for the estimate. The rebuilding will 
go on fast. You must go yourself to the Dean- 
ery for a license. It is my wish that the mar- 
riage should take place as soon as possible ; im- 
mediately would be better. I am busy about 
the Durande. Do you be busy about Deru- 
chette.” 

He dated it and signed “Lethierry.” He 
did not take the trouble to seal it, but merely 
folded it in four and handed it to Grace, saying, 

“Take that to Gilliatt.” 

“ To the Bu de la Rue ?” 

“To the Bfi de la Rue.” 


BOOK III. 

THE DEPARTURE OF THE “CASHMERE” 


I. 

THE CHEEK NEAR THE CHURCH. 

When there is a crowd at St. Sampson, St. 
Peter’s Port is soon deserted. A point of curi- 
osity at a given place is like an air-pump. News 
travels fast in small places. Going to see the 
funnel of the Durande under Mess Lethierry’s 
window had been, since sunrise, the business of 
the Guernsey folks. Every other event was 
eclipsed by this. The death of the Dean of St. 
Asaph was forgotten, together with the question 
of the Reverend Mr. Caudray, his sudden riches, 
and the departure of the “Cashmere.” The 
machinery of the Durande brought back from 
the Douvres rocks was the order of the day. 
People were incredulous. The shipwreck had 
appeared extraordinary, the salvage seemed im- 
possible. Everybody hastened to assure him- 
self of the truth by the help of his own eyes. 
Business of every kind was suspended. Long 
strings of townsfolk with their families, from the 
“Vesin” up to the “Mess,” men and women, 
gentlemen, mothers with children, infants with 
dolls, were coming by every road or pathway to 
see “the thing to be seen” at the Bravees, turn- 
ing their backs upon St. Peter’s Port. Many 
shops at St. Peter’s Port were closed. In the 
Commercial Arcade there was an absolute stag- 
nation in buying and selling. The Durande 
alone obtained attention. Not a single shop- 
keeper had had a “handsell” that morning, ex- 
cept a jeweller, who was surprised at having sold 


a wedding-ring to “a sort of a man who ap- 
peared in a great hurry, and who asked for the 
house of the Dean.” The shops which remain- 
ed open were centres of gossip, where loiterers 
discussed the miraculous salvage. There was 
not a foot-passenger at the “Hyvreuse,” which 
is known in these days, nobody knows why, as 
Cambridge Park ; no one in the High Street, 
then called the “ Grande Rue nor in Smith 
Street, known then only as the Rue des Forges ; 
nobody in Hauteville. The Esplanade itself 
was deserted. One might have guessed it to be 
Sunday. A visit from a royal personage to re- 
view the militia at the Ancresse could not have 
emptied the town more completely. All this 
hubbub about “ a nobody” like Gilliatt caused 
a good deal of shrugging of the shoulders among 
persons of grave and correct habits. 

The church of St. Peter’s Port, with its three 
gable-ends placed side by side, its transept and 
its steeple, stands at the water’s side at the end 
of the harbour, and nearly on the landing-place 
itself, where it welcomes those who arrive and 
gives the departing “ God speed.” It repre- 
sents the capital letter at the beginning of that 
long line which forms the front of the town to- 
wards the sea. 

It is both the parish church of St. Peter’fc 
Port and the chief place of the Deanery of the 
whole island. Its officiating minister is the sur- 
rogate of the bishop, a clergyman in full orders. 

The harbour of St. Peter’s Port, a very fine 
and large port at the present day, was at that 


147 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


epoch, and even up to ten years ago, less con- 
siderable than the harbour of St. Sampson. It 
was enclosed by two enormous thick walls, be- 
ginning at the water's edge on both sides, and 
curving till they almost joined again at the ex- 
tremities, where there stood a little white light- 
house. Under this lighthouse, a narrow gullet, 
bearing still the two rings of the chain with 
which it was the custom to bar the passage in 
ancient times, formed the entrance for vessels. 
The harbour of St. Peter’s Port might be well 
compared with the claw of a huge lobster opened 
a little way. This kind of pincers took from 
the ocean a portion of the sea, which it com- 
pelled to remain calm. But during the east- 
erly winds the waves rolled heavily against the 
narrow entrance, the port was agitated, and it 
was better not to enter. This is what had hap- 
pened with the “Cashmere” that day, which 
had accordingly anchored in the roads. 

The vessels, too, during the eastei’ly winds, 
preferred this course, which besides saved them 
the port dues. On these occasions, the boat- 
men of the town, a hardy race of mariners whom 
the new port has thrown out of employment, 
came in their boats to fetch passengers at the 
landing-place or at stations on the shore, and 
carried them with their luggage, often in heavy 
seas, but always without accident, to the vessels 
about to sail. The east wind blows off the 
shore, and is very favourable for the passage to 
England ; the vessel at such times rolls, but does 
not pitch. 

When a vessel happened to be in the port, 
everybody embarked from the quay. When it 
was in the roads they took their choice, and 
embarked from any point of the coast near the 
moorings. 

The “Havelet” was one of these creeks. 
This little harbour (which is the signification 
of the word) was near the town, but was so 
solitary that it seemed far off. This solitude 
was owing to the shelter of the high cliffs of 
Fort St. George, which overlooked this retired 
inlet. The “Havelet” was accessible by several 
paths. The most direct was along the water’s 
side. It had the advantage of leading to the 
town and to the church in five minutes’ walk, 
and the disadvantage of being covered by the 
sea twice a day. The other paths were more or 
less abrupt, and led down to the creek through 
gaps in the steep rocks. Even in broad day- 
light it was dusk in the Havelet. Huge blocks 
overhanging it on all sides, and thick bushes and 
brambles, cast a sort of soft twilight upon the 
rocks and waves below. Nothing could be more 
peaceful than this spot in calm weather ; noth- 
ing more tumultuous during heavy seas. There 
were ends of branches there which were always 
wet with the foam. In the spring-time the 
place was full of flowers, of nests, of perfumes, 
of birds, of butterflies, and bees. Thanks to re- 
cent improvements, this wild nook no longer 
exists. Fine, straight lines have taken the 
place of these wild features ; masonry, quays, 
end little gardens have made their appearance; 


earth -work has been the rage, and taste has 
finally subdued the eccentricities of the cliff, 
and the irregularities of the rocks below. 


II. 

DESPAIR CONFRONTS DESPAIR. 

It was a little before ten o’clock in the morn- * 
ing. The crowd at St. Sampson, according to 
all appearance, was increasing. The multitude, 
feverish with curiosity, was moving towards the 
north ; and the Havelet, which is in the south, 
was more deserted than ever. 

Notwithstanding this, there was a boat there 
and a boatman. In the boat was a travelling- 
bag. The boatman seemed to be expecting 
some one. 

The “ Cashmere” was visible at anchor in the 
roads, as she did not start till midday; there 
was as yet no sign of moving aboard. 

A passer-by, who had listened from one of 
the ladder-paths up the cliffs overhead, would 
have heard a murmur of words in the Havelet, 
and if be had leaned over the overhanging cliff 
might have seen, at some distance from the 
boat, in a corner among the rocks and branches, 
where the eye of the boatman could not reach 
them, a man and a woman. It was Caudray 
and Deruchette. 

These obscure nooks on the sea- shore, the 
chosen places of lady bathers, are not always 
so solitary as is believed. Persons are some- 
times observed and heard there. Those who 
seek shelter and solitude in them may easily be 
followed through the thick bushes, and, thanks 
to the multiplicity and entanglement of the 
paths, the granite and the shrubs which favour 
the stolen interview may also favour the wit- 
ness. 

Caudray and Deruchette stood face to face, 
looking into each other’s eyes, and holding each 
other by the hand. Deruchette was speaking. 
Caudray was silent. A tear that had gathered 
upon his eyelash hung there and did not fall. 

Grief and strong passion were imprinted in 
his calm, religious countenance. A painful res- 
ignation was there too — a resignation hostile to 
faith, though springing from it. Upon that 
face, simply devout until then, there was the 
commencement of a fatal expression. He whe 
had hitherto meditated only on doctrine, had 
begun to meditate on Fate, an unhealthy medi- 
tation for a priest. Faith dissolves under its 
action. Nothing disturbs the religious mind 
more than that bending under the weight of 
the unknown. Life seems a perpetual succes- 
sion of events, to which man submits. We 
never know from which direction the sudden 
blow will come. Misery and happiness enter or 
make their exit like unexpected guests. Their 
laws, their orbit, their principle of gravitation, 
are beyond man’s grasp. Virtue conducts not 
to happiness, nor crime to retribution ; corn 
science has one logic, fate another ; and neither 


148 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


coincide. Nothing is foreseen. We live con- 
fusedly, and from hand to mouth. Conscience 
is thestraight line, life is the whirlwind, which 
creates above man’s head either black chaos or 
the blue sky. Fate does not practice the art 
of transitions. Her wheel turns sometimes so 
fast that we can scarcely distinguish the interval 
between one revolution and another, or the link 
between yesterday and to-day. Caudray was a 
believer whose faith did not exclude reason, and 
whose priestly training did not shut him out 
from passion. Those religious systems which 
impose celibacy on the priesthood are not with- 
out reason for it. Nothing really destroys the 
individuality of the priest more than love. All 
sorts of clouds seemed to darken Caudray ’s 
soul. He looked too long into Deruchette’s 
eyes. These two beings worshipped each other. 

There was in Caudray’s eye the mute adora- 
tion of despair. 

Deruchette spoke: 

“You must not leave me. I shall not have 
strength. I thought I could bid you farewell. 
I cannot. Why did you come yesterday ? You 
should not have come if you were going so soon. 
I never spoke to you. I loved you, but knew 
it not. Only that day, when M. Herode read 
to us the story of Rebecca, and when your eyes 
met mine, my cheeks were like fire, and I 
thought only of how Rebecca’s face must have 
burnt like mine ; and yet, if any one had told 
me yesterday that I loved you, I might have 
laughed at it. This is what is so terrible. It 
has been like a treason. I did not take heed. 
I went to the church, I saw you, I thought 
everybody there was like myself. I do not re- 
proach you ; you did nothing to make me love 
you ; you did nothing but look at me ; it is not 
your fault if you look at people ; and yet that 
made me love you so much. I did not even 
suspect it. When you took up the book it was 
a flood of light ; when others took it, it was but 
a book. You raised your eyes sometimes; you 
spoke of archangels ; oh ! you were my arch- 
angel. What you said penetrated my thoughts 
at once. Before then, I know not even whether 
I believed in God. Since I have known } r ou, 
I have learnt to pray. I used to say to Douce, 
dress me quickly, lest I should be late at the 
service ; and I hastened to the church. Such 
it was with me to love some one. I did not 
know the cause. I said to myself, how devout 
I am becoming. It is from you that I have 
learnt that I do not go to church for God’s serv- 
ice. It is true; I went for your sake. You 
spoke so well, and when you raised your arms 
to heaven, you seemed to hold my heart within 
your two white hands. I was foolish, but I 
did not know it. Shall I tell you your fault? 
It was your coming to me in the garden ; it was 
your speaking to me. If you had said nothing, 
I should have known nothing. If you had gone, 
I should, perhaps, have been sad, but now I 
should die. Since I know that I love you, you 
cannot leave me. Of what are you thinking? 
You do not seem to listen to me.” 


Caudray replied, 

“You heard what was said last night?” 

“Ah me!” 

“What can I do against that?” 

They were silent for a moment. Caudray 
continued : 

“There is but one duty left to me. It is to 

fly.” 

“And mine to die. Oh! how I wish there 
was no sea, but only sky. It seems to me as 
if that would settle all, and that our departure 
would be the same. It was wrong to speak to 
me ; why did you speak to me ? Do not go. 
What will become of me? I tell you I shall 
die. You will be far off when I shall be in my 
grave. Oh ! my heart will break. I am very 
wretched ; yet my uncle is not unkind.” 

It was the first time in her life that Deru- 
chette had ever said “my uncle.” Until then 
she had always said “my father.” 

Caudray stepped back, and made a sign to 
the boatman. Deruchette heard the sound of 
the boat-hook among the shingle, and the step 
of the man on the gunwale of the boat. 

“No! no!” cried Deruchette. 

“ It must be, Deruchette,” replied Caudray. 

“No! never! For the sake of an engine — 
impossible. Did you see that horrible man last 
night? You cannot abandon me thus. You 
are wise ; you can find a means. It is impossi- 
ble that you bade me come here this morning 
with the idea of leaving me. I have never done 
anything to deserve this; j t ou can have no re- 
proach to make me. Is it by that vessel that 
you intended to sail? I will not let you go. 
You shall not leave me. Heaven does not open 
thus to close so soon. I know you will remain. 
Besides, it is not yet time. Oh ! how I lovo 
you !” 

And pressing closely to him, she interlaced 
the fingers of each hand behind his neck, as if 
pai-tly to make a bond of her two arms for de- 
taining him, and partly with her joined hands 
to pray. He moved away this gentle restraint, 
while Deruchette resisted as long as she could. 

De'ruchette sank upon a projection of the rock 
covered with ivy, lifting by an unconscious 
movement the sleeve of her dress up to the el- 
bow, and exhibiting her graceful arm. A pale 
suffused light was in her eyes. The boat w r as 
approaching. 

Caudray held her head between his hands. 
He touched her hair with a sort of religious 
care, fixed his eyes upon her for some moments, 
then kissed her on the forehead fervently, and 
in an accent trembling with anguish, and in 
which might have been traced the uprooting of 
his soul, he uttered the word which has so often 
resounded in the depths of the human heart, 
“Farewell !” 

Deruchette burst into loud sobs. 

At this moment they heard a voice near 
them, which said solemnly and deliberately, 

“Why should you not be man and wife ?” 

Caudray raised his head. Deruchette looked 
up. 


THE TOILERS OE THE SEA. 


149 


Gilliatt stood before them. 

He had approached by a by-path. 

He was no longer the same man that he had 
appeared on the previous night. He had ar- 
ranged his hair, shaved his beard, put on shoes 
and a white shirt, with a large collar turned 
over sailor fashion. He wore a sailor’s cos- 
tume, but all was new. A gold ring was on his 
little finger. He seemed profoundly calm. His 
sunburnt skin had become pale ; a line of sick- 
ly bronze overspread it. 

They looked at him astonished. , Though so 
changed, Deruchette recognised him. But the 
words which he had spoken were so far from 
what was passing in their minds at that moment, 
that they had left no distinct impression. 

Gilliatt spoke again : 

“ Why should you say farewell ? Make your- 
selves man and wife, and go together.” 

Deruchette started. A trembling seized her 
from head to foot. 

Gilliatt continued: 

4 4 Miss Lethierry is a woman. She is of age. 
It depends only on herself. Her uncle is but 
her uncle. You love each other — ” 

Deruchette interrupted in a gentle voice, and 
asked, “How came you here?” 

“Make yourselves one,” repeated Gilliatt. 

Deruchette began to have a sense of the mean- 
ing of his words. She stammered out, 

“My poor uncle 1” 

44 If the marriage was yet to be,” said Gilli- 
att, “he would refuse. When it is over, he 
will consent. Besides, you are going to leave 
here. When you return, he will forgive.” 

Gilliatt added, with a slight touch of bitter- 
ness, 44 And then he is thinking of nothing just 
now but the rebuilding of his boat. This will 
occupy his mind during your absence. The 
Durande will console him.” 

“I cannot,” said Deruchette, in a state of 
stupor which was not without its gleam of joy, 
“I must not leave him unhappy.” 

“It will be but for a short time,” answered 
Gilliatt. 

Caudray and Deruchette had been, as it were, 
bewildered. They recovered themselves now. 
The meaning of Gilliatt’s words became plainer 
as their surprise diminished. There was a 
slight cloud still before them, but their part -was 
not to resist. We yield easily to those who 
come to save. Objections to a return into Par- 
adise are weak. There was something in the 
attitude of Deruchette, as she leaned impercep- 
tibly upon her lover, which seemed to make 
common cause with Gilliatt’s words. The enig- 
ma of the presence of this man, and of his words, 
which, in the mind of Deruchette in particular, 
produced various kinds of astonishment, was a 
thing apart. He said to them, “Be man and 
wife!” This was clear. If there was respon- 
sibility, it was his. Deruchette had a confused 
feeling that, for many reasons, he had the right 
to decide upon her fate. Caudray murmured, 
as if plunged in thought, 44 An uncle is not a 
father.” 


His resolution was corrupted by the sudden 
and happy turn in his ideas. The probable 
scruples of the clergyman melted, and dissolved 
in his heart’s love for Deruchette. 

Gilliatt’s tone became abrupt and harsh, and 
like the pulsations of fever. 

“There must be no delay,” he said. 44 You 
have time, but that is all. Come.” 

Caudray observed him attentively, and sud- 
denly exclaimed, 

“ I recognise you. It was you who saved 
my life.” 

Gilliatt replied, 

“I think not.” 

“Yonder,” said Caudray, “at the extremity 
of the Banques.” 

“I do not know the place,” said Gilliatt. 

44 It was on the very day that I arrived here.” 

“Let us lose no time,” interrupted Gilliatt. 

44 And if I am not deceived, you are the man 
whom we met last night.” 

44 Perhaps.” 

44 What is your name ?” 

Gilliatt raised his voice, 

44 Boatman ! wait there for us. We shall re- 
turn soon. You asked me, Miss Lethierry, how 
I came to be here. The answer is very simple. 
I walked behind you. You are twenty-one. In 
this country, when persons are of age, and de- 
pend only on themselves, they may be married 
immediately. Let us take the path along the 
water-side. It is passable ; the tide will not 
rise here till noon. But lose no time. Come 
with me.” 

Deruchette and Caudray seemed to consult 
each other by a glance. They were standing 
close together motionless. They were intoxi- 
cated — with joy. There are strange hesitations 
sometimes on the edge of the abyss of happi- 
ness. They understood, as it were, without 
understanding. 

44 His name is Gilliatt,” whispered Deru- 
chette. 

Gilliatt interrupted with a sort of tone of au- 
thority. 

44 What do you linger for?” he asked. “I 
tell you to follow me.” 

“Whither?” asked Caudray. 

“There!” 

And Gilliatt pointed with his finger towards 
the spire of the church. 

Gilliatt walked on before, and they followed 
him. His step was firm, but they walked un- 
steadily. 

As they approached the church, an expres- 
sion dawned upon those two pure and beautiful 
countenances which was soon to become a smile. 
The approach to the church lighted them up. 
In the hollow eyes of Gilliatt there was the 
darkness of night. The beholder might have 
imagined that he saw a spectre leading two 
souls to Paradise. 

Caudray and Deruchette scarcely took count 
of what had happened. The interposition of this 
man was like the branch clutched at by the 
drowning. They followed their guide with the 


150 


THE TOILERS OE THE SEA. 


docility of despair, leaning on the first comer. 
Those who feel themselves near death easily 
accept the accident which seems to save. De- 
ruchette, more ignorant of life, was more confi- 
dent. Caudray was thoughtful. Deruchette 
Was of age, it was true. The English formali- 
ties of marriage are simple, especially in primi- 
tive parts, where the clergyman has almost a 
discretionary power ; but would the Dean con- 
sent to celebrate the marriage without even in- 
quiring whether the uncle consented? This 
was the question. Nevertheless, they could 
learn. In any case there would be but a delay. 

But what was this man ? and if it was really 
he whom Lethierry the night before had de- 
clared should be his son-in-law, what could be 
the meaning of his actions ? The very obsta- 
cle itself had become a providence. Caudray 
yielded, but his yielding was only the rapid and 
tacit assent of a man who feels himself saved 
from despair. 

The pathway was uneven, and sometimes 
wet and difficult to pass. Caudray, absorbed 
in thought, did not observe the occasional 
pools of water or the heaps of shingle. But 
from time to time Gilliatt turned and said to 
him, “Take heed of those stones. Give her 
your hand.” 


III. 

THE FORETHOUGHT OF SELF-SACRIFICE. 

It struck ten as they entered the church. 

By reason of the early hour, and also on ac- 
count of the desertion of the town that day, 
the church was empty. 

At the farther end, however, near the table 
which in the Reformed Church fulfils the place 
of the altar, there were three persons. They 
were the Dean, his evangelist, and the registrar. 
The Dean, w r ho was the Reverend Jaquemin 
Herode, was seated.; the evangelist and the 
registrar stood beside him. 

A book was open upon the table. 

Beside him, upon a credence-table, was an- 
other book. It was the parish register, and 
also open ; and an attentive eye might have 
remarked a page on which was some writing, 
of which the ink was not yet dry. By the 
side of the register were a pen and a writing- 
desk. 

The Reverend Jaquemin Herode rose on 
perceiving Caudray. 

“ I have been expecting you,” he said. “All 
is ready.” 

The Dean, in fact, wore his officiating robes. 

Caudray looked towards Gilliatt. 

The reverend Dean added, “I am at your 
\ service, brother;” and he bowed. 

It was a bow which neither turned to right 
or left. It was evident, from the direction of 
the Dean’s gaze, that he did not recognise the 
existence of any one but Caudray, for Caudray 
was a clergyman and a gentleman. Neither 
Deruchette, who stood aside, nor Gilliatt, who 


was in the rear, were included in the salutation. 
His look was a sort of parenthesis, in which 
none but Caudray were admitted. The observ- 
ance of these little niceties constitutes an im- 
portant feature in the maintenance of order 
and the preservation of society. 

The Dean continued, with a graceful and dig- 
nified urbanity, 

“I congratulate you, my colleague, from a 
double point of view. You have lost your 
uncle, and are about to take a wife ; you are 
blessed with riches on the one hand, and hap- 
piness on the other. Moreover, thanks to the 
boat which they are about to rebuild, Mess 
Lethierry will also be rich, which is as it 
should be. Miss Lethierry was born in this 
parish ; I have verified the date of her birth in 
the register. She is of age, and at her own 
disposal. Her uncle, too, who is her only 
relative, consents. You are anxious to be 
united immediately on account of your ap- 
proaching departure. This I can understand ; 
but this being the marriage of the rector of the 
parish, I should have been gratified to have 
seen it associated with a little more solemnity. 
I will consult your wishes by not detaining you 
longer than necessary. The essentials will be 
soon complied with. The form is already 
drawn up in the register, and it requires only 
the names to be filled in. By the terms of the 
law and custom, the marriage may be cele- 
brated immediately after the inscription. The 
declaration necessary for the license has been 
duly made. I take upon myself a slight ir- 
regularity, for the application for the license 
ought to have been registered seven days in 
advance ; but I yield to necessity and the ur- 
gency of your departure. Be it so, then. I 
will proceed with the ceremony. My evange- 
list will be the witness for the bridegroom ; as 
regards the witness for the bride — ” 

The Dean turned towards Gilliatt. Gilliatt 
made a movement of his head. 

“That is sufficient,” said the Dean. 

Caudray remained motionless; De'ruchette 
was happy, but no less powerless to move. 

“Nevertheless, ’’continued the Dean, “there 
is still an obstacle.” 

Deruchette started. 

The Dean continued : 

“The representative here present of Mess 
Lethierry applied for the license for you, and 
has signed the declaration on the register.” 
And with the thumb of his left hand the Dean 
pointed to Gilliatt, which prevented the ne- 
cessity of his remembering his name. “The 
messenger from Mess Lethierry,” he added, 
“ has informed me this morning that, being too 
much occupied to come in person, Mess Le- 
thierry desired that the marriage should take 
place immediately. This desire, expressed ver- 
bally, is not sufficient. In consequence of hav- 
ing to grant the license, and of the irregularity 
which I take upon myself, I cannot proceed so 
rapidly without informing myself from Mess 
Lethierry personally, unless some one can pro- 


151 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


duce his signature. Whatever might be my 
desire to serve you, I cannot he satisfied with a 
mere message. I must have some written doc- 
ument.” 

“That need not delay us,” said Gilliatt. 
And he presented a paper to the Dean. The 
Dean took it, perused it by a glance, seemed to 
pass over some lines as unimportant, and read 
aloud: “Go to the Dean for the license. I 
wish the marriage to take place as soon as pos- 
sible. Immediately would be better.” 

He placed the paper on the table, and pro- 
ceeded : 

“It is signed Lethierry. It would have been 
more respectful to have addressed himself to me. 
But, since I am called on to serve a colleague, I 
ask no more.” 

Caudray glanced again at Gilliatt. There 
are moments when mind and mind comprehend 
each other with marvellous clearness. Caudray 
felt that there was some deception ; he had not 
the strength of purpose, perhaps he had not the 
idea of revealing it. Whether in obedience to 
a latent heroism, of which he had begun to ob- 
tain a glimpse, or whether from a deadening of 
the conscience, arising from the suddenness of 
the happiness placed within his reach, he uttered 
no word. 

The Dean took the pen, and, aided by the 
clerk, filled up the spaces in the page of the 
register; then he rose, and by a gesture invited 
Caudray and Deruchette to approach the table. 

The ceremony commenced. It was a strange 
moment. Caudray and Deruchette stood beside 
each other before the minister. He who has 
ever dreamed of a marriage in which he him- 
self was chief actor may conceive something of 
the feeling which they experienced. 

Gilliatt stood at a little distance in the shad- 
ow of the pillars. 

Deruchette, on rising in the morning, desper- 
ate, thinking only of death and its associations, 
had dressed herself in white. Her attire, which 
had been associated in her mind with mourn- 
ing, was suited to her nuptials. A white dress 
is all that is necessary for the bride. 

A ray of happiness was visible upon her face. 
Never had she appeared more beautiful. Her 
features were remarkable for prettiness rather 
than what is called beauty. Their fault, if fault 
it be, lay in a certain excess of grace. Deru- 
chette in repose, that is, neither disturbed by 
passion or grief, was graceful above all. The 
ideal Virgin is the transfiguration of a face like 
this. Deruchette, touched by her sorrow and 
her love, seemed to have caught that higher and 
more holy expression. It was the difference 
between the field daisy and the lily. 

The tears had scarcely dried upon her cheeks ; 
one perhaps still lingered in the midst of her 
smiles. Traces of tears indistinctly visible form 
a sweet but sombre accompaniment of joy. 

The Dean, standing near the table, placed 
his finger upon the open book, and asked in a 
distinct voice whether they knew of any imped- 
iment to their union. 


There was no reply. 

“ Amen !” said the Dean. 

Caudray and Deruchette advanced a step or 
two towards the table. 

“Joseph Ebenezer Caudray, wilt thou have 
this woman to be thy wedded wife ?” 

Caudray replied “I will.” 

The Dean continued : 

“Durande Deruchette Lethierry, wilt thou 
have this man to be thy wedded husband?” 

Deruchette, in an agony of soul, springing 
from her excess of happiness, murmured rather 
than uttered, “I will.” 

Then followed the beautiful form of the An- 
glican marriage service. The Dean looked 
around, and in the twilight of the church ut- 
tered the solemn words, 

“ Who giveth this woman to be married to 
this man ?” 

Gilliatt answered, “ I do !” 

There was an interval of silence. Caudray 
and Deruchette felt a vague sense of oppression 
in spite of their joy. 

The Dean placed Deruchette’s right hand in 
Caudray’s, and Caudray repeated after him, 

“I take thee, Durande Deruchette, to be my 
wedded wife, for better for worse, for richer for 
poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to 
cherish till death do us part; and thereto I 
plight thee my troth.” 

The Dean then placed Caudray’s right hand 
in that of Deruchette, and Deruchette said after 
him, 

“I take thee to be my wedded husband, for 
better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sick- 
ness or in health, to love and to cherish till death 
do us part ; and thereto I plight thee my troth.” 

The Dean asked, ‘ ‘ Where is the ring ?” The 
question took them by surprise. Caudray had 
no ring; but Gilliatt took off the gold ring 
which he wore upon his little finger. It was 
probably the wedding-ring which had been sold 
that morning by the jeweller in the Commercial 
Arcade. 

The Dean placed the ring upon the book, 
then handed it to Caudray, who took De'ru- 
chette’s little trembling left hand, passed the 
ring over her fourth finger, and said, 

“With this ring I thee wed!” 

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, 
and of the Holy Ghost,” continued the Dean. 

“Amen,” said his evangelist. 

Then the Dean said, “Let us pray.” 

Caudray and Deruchette turned towards the 
table and knelt down. 

Gilliatt, standing by, inclined his head. 

So they knelt before God, while he seemed to 
bend under the burden of his fate. V 

. 

« / 

IV. 

“for tour wife when you marry.” 

As they left the church they could see the 
“Cashmere” making preparations for her de^ 
parture. 


152 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


“You are in time,” said Gilliatt. 

They chose again ^he path leading to the 
Havelet. , 

Caudray and De'ruchette went before, Gilliatt 
this time walking behind them. They were two 
somnambulists. Their bewilderment had not 
passed away, but only changed in form. They 
took no heed of whither they were going or of 
what they did. They hurried on mechanically, 
scarcely remembering the existence of anything, 
feeling that they were united forever, but scarce- 
ly able to connect two ideas in their minds. In 
ecstasy like theirs it is as impossible to think as 
it is to swim in a torrent. In the midst of their 
trouble and darkness they had been plunged in 
a whirlpool of delight ; they bore a paradise 
within themselves. They did not speak, but 
conversed with each other by the mysterious 
sympathy of their souls. Deruchette pressed 
Caudray’s arm to her side. 

The footsteps of Gilliatt behind them remind- 
ed them now and then that he was there. They 
were deeply moved, but could find no words. 
The excess of emotion results in stupor. Theirs 
was delightful, but overwhelming. They were 
man and wife ; every other idea was postponed 
to that. What Gilliatt had done was well ; 
that was all they could grasp. They felt to- 
wards their guide a deep but vague gratitude in 
their hearts. Deruchette felt that there was 
some mystery to be explained, but not now. 
Meanwhile they accepted their unexpected hap- 
piness. They felt themselves controlled by the 
abruptness and decision of this man who con- 
ferred on them so much happiness with a kind 
of authority. To question him, to talk with 
him seemed impossible. Too many impressions 
rushed into their minds at once for that. Their 
absorption was complete. 

Events succeed each other sometimes with 
the rapidity of hailstones. Their effect is over- 
powering ; they deaden the senses. Falling 
upon existences habitually calm, they render 
incidents rapidly unintelligible even to those 
whom they chiefly concern ; we become scarce- 
ly conscious of our own adventures ; we are 
overwhelmed without guessing the cause, or 
crowned with happiness without comprehend- 
ing it. For some hours Deruchette had been 
subjected to every kind of emotion : at first, 
surprise and delight at meeting Caudray in the 
garden ; then horror at the monster whom her 
uncle had presented as her husband ; then her 
anguish when the angel of her dreams spread 
his wings and seemed about to depart ; and now' 
her joy, a joy such as she had never known, 
founded on an inexplicable enigma ; the mon- 
ster of last night himself restoring her lover; 
marriage arising out of her torture ; this Gil- 
liatt, the evil destiny of last night, become to- 
day her saviour! She could explain nothing 
to her own mind. It was evident that all the 
morning Gilliatt had had no other occupation 
than that of preparing the way for their mar- 
riage : he had done all : he had answered for 
Mess Lethierry, seen the Dean, obtained the 


license, signed the necessary declaration, and 
thus the marriage had been rendered possible. 
But Deruchette understood it not. If she had, 
she could not have comprehended the reasons. 
They did nothing but close their eyes to the 
world, and — grateful in their hearts — yield 
themselves up to the guidance of this good de- 
mon. There was no time for explanations, and 
expressions of gratitude seemed too insignifi- 
cant. They were silent in their trance of love. 

The little power of thought which they re- 
tained was scarcely more than sufficient to guide 
them on their way — to enable them to distin- 
guish the sea from the land, and the “Cash- 
mere” from every other vessel. 

In a few minutes they were at the little creek. 

Caudray entered the boat first. At the mo- 
ment when Deruchette was about to follow, she 
felt her. sleeve held gently. It was Gilliatt, who 
had placed his finger upon a fold of her dress. 

“Madam,” he said, “you are going on a 
journey unexpectedly. It has struck me that 
you would have need of dresses and clothes. 
You will find a trunk aboard the “Cashmere,” 
containing a lady’s clothing. It came to me 
from my mother. It was intended for my wife 
if I should marry. Permit me to ask your ac* 
ceptance of it.” 

Deruchette, partially aroused from her dream, 
turned towards him. Gilliatt continued, in a 
voice which was scarcely audible, 

“ I do not wish to detain you, madam, but I 
feel that I ought to give you some explanation. 
On the day of your misfortune you were sitting 
in the lower room ; you uttered certain words ; 
it is easy to understand that you have forgotten 
them. We are not compelled to remember 
every word we speak. Mess Lethierry was in 
great sorrow. It was certainly a noble vessel, 
and one that did good service. The misfortune 
was recent ; there was a great commotion. 
Those are things which one naturally forgets. 
It was only a vessel wrecked among the rocks ; 
one cannot be always thinking of an accident. 
But what I wished to tell you was, that as it 
was said that no one would go, I went. They 
said it was impossible, but it was not. I thank 
you for listening to me a moment. You can 
understand, madam, that if I went there, it was 
not with the thought of displeasing you. This 
is a thing, besides, of old date. I know that 
you are in haste. If there was time, if we 
talked about this, you might perhaps remember. 
But this is all useless now. The history of it 
goes back to a day when there was snow upon 
the ground. And then, on one occasion that I 
passed you, I thought that you looked kindly on 
me. This is how it was. With regard to last 
night, I had not had time to go to my home. I 
came from my labour ; I was all torn and rag- 
ged ; I startled you, and you fainted. I was to 
blame ; people do not come like that to stran- 
gers’ houses ; I ask your forgiveness. This is 
nearly all I had to say. You are about to sail. 
You will have fine weather ; the wind is in the 
east. Farewell ! You will not blame me for 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


153 


troubling you with these things. This is the 
last minute.” 

“I am thinking of the trunk you spoke of,” 
replied Deruchette. “Why do you not keep it 
for your wife, when you marry?” 

“It is most likely, madam,” replied Gilliatt, 
“that I shall never marry.” 

“That would be a pity,” said Deruchette; 
* ‘ you are so good. ” 

And De'ruchette smiled. Gilliatt returned 
her smile. 

Then he assisted her to step into the boat. 

In less than a quarter of an hour afterwards, 
Caudray and Deruchette were aboard the “Cash- 
mere,” in the roads. 


Y. 

THE GREAT TOMB. 

Gilliatt walked along the water-side, passed 
rapidly through St. Peter’s Port, and then turned 
towards St. Sampson by the sea-shore. In his 
anxiety to meet no one whom he knew, he avoid- 
ed the highways, now filled with foot-passengers 
by his great achievement. 

For a long time, as the reader knows, he had 
had a peculiar manner of traversing the coun- 
try in all parts without being observed. He 
knew the by-paths, and favoured solitary and 
winding routes ; he had the shy habits of a wild 
beast who knows that he is disliked, and keeps 
at a distance. When quite a child, he had been 
quick to feel how little welcome men showed in 
their faces at his approach, and he had gradual- 
ly contracted that habit of being alone which 
had since become an instinct. 

He passed through the Esplanade, then by 
the Salerie. Now and then he turned and 
looked behind him at the “Cashmere” in the 
roads which was beginning to set her sails. 
There was little wind ; Gilliatt went faster than 
the “Cashmere.” He walked with downcast 
eyes among the lower rocks at the water’s edge. 
The tide was beginning to rise. 

Suddenly he stopped, and, turning his back, 
contemplated for some minutes a group of oaks 
beyond the rocks which concealed the road to 
Yale. They were the oaks at the spot called 
the Basses Maisons. It was there that Deru- 
chette once wrote with her finger the name of 
Gilliatt in the snow. Many a day had passed 
since that snow had melted away. 

Then he pursued his way. 

The day was beautiful — more beautiful than 
any that had yet been seen that year. It was 
one of those spring days when May suddenly 
pours forth all its beauty, and when Nature 
seems to have no thought but to rejoice and be 
happy. Amidst the many murmurs from for- 
est and village, from the sea and the air, a sound 
of cooing could be distinguished. The first but- 
terflies of the year were resting on the early 
roses. Everything in nature seemed new — 
the grass, the mosses, the leaves, the perfumes, 


the rays of light. The sun shone as if it had 
never shone before. The pebbles seemed bathed 
in coolness. Birds but lately fledged sang out 
their deep notes from the trees, or fluttered 
among the boughs in their attempts to use their 
new-found wings. There was a chattering all 
together of goldfinches, pewits, tomtits, wood- 
peckers, bullfinches, and thrushes. The blos- 
soms of lilacs, May lilies, daphnes, and melilots 
mingled their various hues in the thickets. A 
beautiful kind of water-weed peculiar to Guern- 
sey covered the pools with an emerald green ; 
and the kingfishers and the water-wagtails, 
which make such graceful little nests, came 
down there to bathe their wings. Through ev- 
ery opening in the branches appeared the deep 
blue sky. A few lazy clouds followed each 
other in the azure depths. The ear seemed to 
catch the sound of kisses sent from invisible 
lips. Every old wall had its tufts of wallflow- 
ers. The plum-trees and laburnums were in 
blossom ; their white and yellow masses gleam- 
ed through the interlacing boughs. The spring 
showered all her gold and silver on the woods. 
The new shoots and leaves were green and fresh. 
Calls of welcome were in the air ; the approach- 
ing summer opened her hospitable doors for 
birds coming from afar. It was the time of the 
arrival of the swallows. The clusters of furze- 
bushes bordered the steep sides of hollow roads 
in anticipation of the clusters of the hawthorn. 
The pretty and the beautiful reigned side by 
side ; the magnificent and the graceful, the great 
and the little, had each their place. No note 
in the great concert of nature was lost. Green 
microscopic beauties took their place in the vast 
universal plan in which all seemed distinguish- 
able as in limpid water. Everywhere a divine 
fullness, a mysterious sense of expansion, sug- 
gested the unseen effort of the sap in move- 
ment. Glittering things glittered more than 
ever ; loving natures became more tender. 
There was a hymn in the flowers, and a radi- 
ance in the sounds of the air. The wide-dif- 
fused harmony of nature burst forth on every 
side. All things which felt the dawn of life in- 
vited others to put forth shoots. A movement 
coming from below, and also from above, stirred 
vaguely all hearts susceptible to the scattered 
and subterranean influence of germination. 
The flower shadowed forth the fruit; young 
maidens dreamed of love. It was Nature’s 
universal bridal. It was fine, bright, and warm ; 
through the hedges in the meadows children 
were seen laughing and playing at their games. 
The fruit-trees filled the orchards with their 
heaps of white and pink blossoms. In the fields 
were primroses, cowslips, milfoil, daffodils, dai- 
sies, speedwell, jacinths, and violets. Blue 
borage and yellow irises swarmed with those 
beautiful little pink stars which flower always 
in groups, and are hence called “companions.” 
Creatures with golden scales glided between the 
stones. The flowering houseleek covered the 
thatched roofs with purple patches. Women 
were plaiting hives in the open air ; and the 


154 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


bees were abroad, mingling their humming with | 
the murmurs from the sea. 

When Gilliatt arrived at St. Sajnpson, the 
water had not yet risen at the further end of 
the harbour, and he was able to cross it dry- i 
footed unperceived behind the hulks of vessels 
fixed for repair. A number of flat stones were 
placed there at regular distances to make a 
causeway. 

He was not observed. The crowd was at the | 
other end of the port, near the narrow entrance, 
by the Bravees. There his name was in every 
mouth. They were speaking about him so much 
that none paid attention to him. He passed, 
sheltered in some degree by the very commotion 
that he had caused. 

He saw from afar the sloop in the place 
where he had moored it, with the funnel stand- 
ing between its four chains ; observed a move- 
ment of carpenters at their work, and confused 
outlines of figures passing to and fro ; and he 
could distinguish the loud and cheery voice of 
Mess Lethierry giving orders. 

He threaded the narrow alleys behind the 
Bravees. There was no one there beside him. 
All curiosity was concentrated on the front of 
the house. He chose the footpath alongside the 
low wall of the garden, but stopped at the angle 
where the wild mallow grew. He saw once 
more the stone where he used to pass his time ; 
saw once more the wooden garden-seat where 
Deruchette was accustomed to sit, and glanced 
again at the pathway of the alley where he had 
seen the embrace of two shadows which had 
vanished. 

He soon went on his way, climbed the hill of 
Yale Castle, descended again, and directed his 
steps towards the Bu de la Rue. 

The Houmet-Paradis was a solitude. 

His house was in the same state in which he 
had left it in the morning, after dressing him- 
self to go to St. Peter’s Port. 

A window was open, through which his bag- 
pipe might have been seen hanging to a nail 
upon the wall. 

Upon the table was the little “Bible” given 
to him in token of gratitude by the stranger 
whom he now knew as Caudray. 

The key was in the door. He approached, 
placed his hand upon it, turned it twice in the 
lock, put the key in his pocket, and departed. 

He walked not in the direction of the town, 
but towards the sea. 

He traversed his garden diagonally, taking 
the shortest way without regard to the beds, but 
taking care not to tread upon the plants which 
he placed there, because he had heard that they 
were favourites with Deruchette. 

He crossed the parapet wall, and let himself 
down upon the rocks. 

Going straight on, he began to follow the 
long ridge of rocks which connected the Bu de 
la Rue with the great natural obelisk of granite 
rising erect from the sea, which was known as 
the Beast’s Horn. This was the place of the 
Gild-Holm-’Ur seat. 


He strode on from block to block like a giant 
among mountains. To make long strides upon 
a row of breakers is like walking upon the ridge 
of a roof. 

A fisherwoman with dredge-nets, who had 
been walking naked-footed among the pools of 
sea-water at some distance, and had just re- 
gained the shore, called to him, “Take care; 
the tide is coming.” But he held on his way. 

Having arrived at the great rock of the point, 
the Horn, which rises like a pinnacle from the 
sea, he stopped. It was the extremity of the 
promontory. 

He looked around. 

Out at sea a few sailing-boats at anchor wera 
fishing. Now and then rivulets of silver glit- 
tered among them in the sun ; it was the water 
running from the nets. The “Cashmere” was 
not yet off St. Sampson. She had set her main- 
topsail, and was between Herm and Jethou. 

Gilliatt rounded the rock, and came under 
the Gild-Holm-’Ur seat, at the foot of that kind 
of abrupt stairs where, less than three months 
before, he had assisted Caudray to come down. 
He ascended. 

The greater number of the steps were already 
under water. Two or three only were still dry, 
by which he climbed. 

The steps led up to the Gild-Holm-’Ur seat. 
He reached the niche, contemplated it for a mo- 
ment, pressed his hand upon his eyes, and let it 
glide gently from one eyelid to the other — a ges- 
ture by which he seemed to obliterate the mem- 
ory of the past — then sat down in the hollow, 
with the perpendicular wall behind him, and the 
ocean at his feet. 

The “ Cashmere” at that moment was pass- 
ing the great round half-submerged tower, de- 
fended by one sergeant and a cannon, which 
marks the half way in the roads between Herm 
and St. Peter’s Port. 

A few flowers stirred among the crevices in 
the rock about Gilliatt’s head. The sea was 
blue as far as eye could reach. The wind came 
from the east ; there was a little surf in the di- 
rection of the island of Sark, of which only the 
western side is visible from Guernsey. In the 
distance appeared the coast of France like a 
mist, with the lon^ yellow strips of sand about 
Carteret. Now and then a white butterfly flut- 
tered by. The butterflies frequently fly out to 
sea. 

The breeze was very slight. The blue ex- 
panse, both above and below, was tranquil. Not 
a ripple agitated those species of serpents, of an 
azure more or less dark, which indicate on the 
surface of the sea the lines of sunken rocks. 

The “Cashmere,” little moved by the wind, 
had set her topsail and studding-sails to catch 
the breeze. All her canvas was spread, but the 
wind being a side one, her studding-sails only 
compelled her to hug the Guernsey coast more 
closely. She had passed the beacon of St. 
Sampson, and was off the hill of Yale Castle. 
The moment was approaching when she would 
double the point of the B& de la Rue. 


THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. 


155 


Gilliatt watched her approach. 

The air and sea were still. The tide rose 
not by waves, but by an imperceptible swell. 
The level of the water crept upward without a 
palpitation. The subdued murmur from the 
open sea was soft as the breathing of a child. 

In the direction of the harbour of St. Samp- 
son, faint echoes could be heard of carpenters’ 
hammers. The carpenters were probably the 
workmen constructing the tackle, gear, and ap- 
paratus for removing the engine from the sloop. 
The sounds, however, scarcely reached Gilliatt 
by reason of the mass of granite at his back. 

The “ Cashmere” approached with the slow- 
ness of a phantom. 

Gilliatt watched it still. 

Suddenly a splash and a sensation of cold 
caused him to look down. The sea touched his 
feet. 

He lowered his eyes, then raised them again. 

The “ Cashmere” was quite near. 

The rock in which the rains had hollowed 
out the Gild-Holm-’ Ur seat was so completely 
vertical, and there was so much water at its 
base, that in calm weather vessels were able to 
pass without danger within a few cables lengths. 

The “ Cashmere” was abreast of the rock. It 
rose straight upwards as if it had grown out of 
the water. It was like the lengthening out of 
a shadow. The rigging showed black against 
the heavens and in the magnificent expanse of 
the sea. The long sails, passing 'for a moment 
over the sun, became lighted up with a singular 
glory and transparence. The water murmured 
indistinctly, but no other noise marked the ma- 
jestic gliding of that outline. The deck was as 
visible as if he had stood upon it. 

The steersman was at the helm ; a cabin-boy 
was climbing the shrouds ; a few passengers 
leaning on the bulwarks were contemplating the 
beauty of the scene. The captain was smoking ; 
but nothing of all this was seen by Gilliatt. 

There was a spot on the deck on which the 
broad sunlight fell. It was on this corner that 
his eyes were fixed. In this sunlight stood 
Daruchette and Caudray. They were sitting 
together side by side, like two birds, warming 
the'mselves in the noonday sun, upon one of 
those covered seats with a little awning which 
well-ordered packet-boats provided for passen- 
gers, and upon which was the inscription, when 
it happened to be an English vessel, “For ladies 
only.” Deruchette’s head was leaning upon 
Caudray's shoulder; his arm was around her 
waist; they held each other’s hands with their 
fingers interwoven. A celestial light was dis- 
cernible in those two faces formed by innocence. 
Their chaste embrace was expressive of their 
earthly union and their purity of soul. The 
seat was a sort of alcove, almost a nest ; it was 
at the same time a glory round them — the ten- 
der aureola of love passing into a cloud. 

The silence was like the calm of heaven. 

Caudray’s gaze was fixed in contemplation. 
Deruchette’s lips moved ; and, amidst that per- 
fect silence, as the wind carried the vessel near 

THE 


shore, and it glided within a few fathoms of the 
Gild-Holm-’Ur seat, Gilliatt heard the tender 
and musical voice of Deruchette exclaiming, 

“Look yonder. It seems as if there were a 
man upon the rock.” 

The vessel passed. 

Leaving the promontory of the Bfi de la Rue 
behind, the “ Cashmere” glided on upon the 
waters. In less than a quarter of an hour, her 
masts and sails formed only a white obelisk, 
gradually decreasing against the horizon. Gil- 
liatt felt that the water had reached his knees. 

He contemplated the vessel speeding on her 
way. 

The breeze freshened out at sea. He could 
see the “ Cashmere” run out her lower studding- 
sails and her staysails to take advantage of the 
rising wind. She was already clear of the waters 
of Guernsey. Gilliatt followed it with his eyes. 

The waves had reached his waist. 

The tide was rising : time was passing away. 

The sea-mews and cormorants flew about him 
restlessly, as if anxious to warn him of his dan- 
ger. It seemed as if some of his old compan- 
ions of the Douvres rocks had recognised him. 

An hour had passed. 

The wind from the sea was scarcely felt in 
the roads, but the form of the “Cashmere” was 
rapidly growing less. The sloop, according to 
all appearance, was sailing fast. It was already 
nearly off the Casquets. 

There was no foam around the Gild-Holm- 
’Ur; no wave beat against its granite sides. 
The water rose peacefully. It was nearly level 
with Gilliatt’s shoulders. 

Another hour had passed. 

The “ Cashmere” was beyond the waters of 
Aurigny. The Ortach rock concealed it for a 
moment ; it passed behind it, and came forth 
again as from an eclipse. The sloop was veer- 
ing to the north upon the open sea. It was 
now only a point glittering in the sun. 

The birds were hovering about Gilliatt, utter- 
ing short cries. Only his head was now visible. 
The tide was nearly at the full. Evening was 
approaching. Behind him, in the roads, a few 
fishing-boats were making for the harbour. 

Gilliatt’s eyes continued fixed upon the ves- 
sel in the horizon. Their expression resembled 
nothing earthly. A strange lustre shone in their 
calm and tragic depths. There was in them the 
peace of vanished hopes, the calm but sorrow- 
ful acceptance of an end far different from his 
dreams. By degrees the dusk of heaven began 
to darken in them, though gazing still upon the 
point in space. At the same moment the wide 
waters round the Gild-Holm-’Ur and the vast 
gathering twilight closed upon them. 

The “Cashmere,” now scarcely perceptible, 
had become a mere spot in the thin haze. 

Gradually the spot, which was but a shape, 
grew paler. 

Then it dwindled, and finally disappeared. 

At the moment when the vessel vanished on 
the line of the horizon, the head of Gilliatt dis 
appeared. Nothing was visible now but the sea 

END. 


I 
































/ 























